Cambiare
by NotoriouslyN
Summary: Chloe Greenwell had gotten back to Gotham because she wanted to help her father with the family business. But she hadn't thought of the distractions that could come in the form of Bruce Wayne. Post DK. Bruce Wayne/ OC
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Batman belongs to those people at DC Comics and Christopher Nolan. The Batman- ish stuffs that I would ever own is my Batman DVDs and comics. But my characters belong to only me and no one else.**

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A feminine figure staggered out of a club in Gotham's downtown. Leaning heavily on the wall adjacent to the entrance, she managed to recall where she had parked her car— not an easy feat when your brain had been soaked in alcohol for extended periods of time. A relative newcomer to the crime- infested city, she didn't possess Gothamites natural sense of self- preservation. They know better than to be walking the streets alone at four hours past midnight. Even more so for the ladies, who know it as the most insensible thing they could do while in the city limits.

Blissfully unaware of the dangers of roaming the local streets at an ungodly hour, she broke out into an off- key chorus of _Bad Romance_. She made it until two- blocks away from the hip- hop and R&B- throbbing establishment without incident. Surprising even herself, her neuroses were only lagged enough for her to pick up the clear sound of footsteps behind her. It resembled nothing like the stray, inconsistent clicking of her five- inch heels, sounding all sure and determined. Whoever the person was, they are definitely more sober. Clumsily she whirled around to an unshaven face of a man with a lustful gaze fixated on her. "Babe, you've drunk too much tonight." He waggled a fat finger reprimandingly.

"Eesh... I like... it!" She swatted his hand away with less force than she intended, no thanks to her inebriated state.

Yellowing teeth appearing even more yellow in the light of the streetlamps, he grinned. "We can keep each other company all night." Then she wrinkled her nose, more from the sight presented to her than the fact that the man was no desirable company.

Probably encouraged by the lack of vocal opposition whatsoever, he closed the gap between them in swift strides. His hand went to rest on her waist and she shuddered. Goosebumps dotted her exposed arms. "No need to be afraid of me." He brought his fleshy palms up to run the length of her arms and, in her alcohol- addled brain she still had the decency to back away from him. The closeness was starting to sober her up a little but not enough for her legs to break into a run.

His expression darkened slightly as he held both his arms up in a surrendering gesture. It was the alcohol which made the decision for her feet to stop its retreat. She burst into laughter. "You're no monster," She said as if in sudden realization that she had nothing to be afraid of the stranger, pointing a feeble finger in his direction.

People like him were opportunist, always looking out for the best they could get for a night of free satisfaction. One who suited his taste now stood not that far away. None too kindly, he drew her to him by her shoulders and before she knew it, dropped his head to the crook of her neck, inhaling the mash of leftover perfume and liquor. He took a slow long breath and proceeded to kiss her sloppily on the lips.

She managed to pull her mouth away from the unpleasant assault of his mouth on hers and just as easily he caught her mouth in his again. Giving her attempt more tries, she repeated it until the fifth time when it angered him to the point that he shoved her towards the dumpster in a nearby alley partially shrouded in darkness. With a cry of pain—more like a whimper— her body sagged against the rusted metal surface and she brought up a hand to rub a sore spot on her scalp.

"Damn ungrateful bitch. I'm about to give you the best time of your life and that's how you plan on treating me."

"I'm humannnnn… Not female dogggggggg," She slurred, shaking her head vigorously. "Your mouth is a stinkbomb!" She complained while pinching her nose, referring to his breath that stank of cigarette smoke.

Perhaps it was all she needed; a cue for the intervention of Gotham's sworn protector. An ominous hulking figure swooped down, seemingly massive enough to scare many people away simply by appearance. In her state of drunkenness and in the weak light that spilled into the alley, she barely managed to have a good look at the proceedings of assault on the man. His grunts of pain, however, were not lost to her hearing.

When it was seemingly quiet enough to indicate that the man was unconscious and it was handed to him by the human- creature hybrid in black, she cheered with the lifting of an arm. "Yay. The bad guy has lost!"

The spot she was lying on looked sufficiently comfortable as a place for her to spend a night on and she was almost closing her eyes when a gravelly voice sounded from one side of her. "You're drunk. We need to get you home." Her arm was held in the grip of a black gloved hand.

His voice effectively made her to look up at him as she tried to figure out who he was. The alcohol did nothing to suppress her curiosity. "What is your name—" She hiccupped. "We can be friends—" Drunkenly, she threw both arms around his neck, resting her face on the image of a bat emblazoned on the chest plate of the vigilante's suit. He promptly took her arms away from him.

The Batman wasn't known to make small talk with those he happened to be in contact with, and he wasn't supposed to make any exceptions with this one question from a woman he didn't know. But he did, reasoning with himself that she was too wasted to be able to remember that she had met a more- talkative- than- usual Batman when she woke up from her undoubtedly bad hangover. "They call me the Batman."

She blinked rapidly to keep his face in focus before she squealed in delight. "Batman! I've always wanted to meet you. People say you have a nice carrrr. Can you give me a ride?"

Her expression was akin to that of a girl who had waited so long to meet her idol in the bone and flesh. It was easy to imagine her asking autographs from her favorite people with her hands clasped in front of her, oozing eagerness. "Did you drive here?"

"In my Mas— Maserati GranTurismoooooo S! It's a beautiful ride in white." She smiled admiringly at the sight of her car in her mind's eye.

"Let's get you home." He reached out for her, scooping the girl who reeked of a night of too many drinks into his arms. She settled into the envelope of muscles made visible by the suit and wrapped her arms around his neck, basking in the knowledge that being carried by a man with a knack for playing dress- up was comfortable.

"Your pointy ears are sooo cute. Anyone told you that?" She cocked her head to one side, smiling up at the vigilante and would have managed to tug at those ears had he not been quick enough to react. "You're no fuuuuuuuunn!" She complained.

He stared at her through the cowl, eyes narrowing slightly to appear intimidating, if only for nothing else but for her to know it wasn't meant to make him appear like a cuddly toy.

She pressed her lips together and crossed her arms, obviously unafraid of the change in his expression and annoyed by the fact that he wanted to scare her. "You— you're not scary." Childishly, she stuck her tongue out at him.

The vigilante inwardly shook his head and badly wanted to roll his eyes. "Bats are. And vampires are. The symbolism makes me effective in striking terror into deserving individuals."

She scowled. "Has anyone ever told you that vampires are sexy pieces of asssss?" She didn't wait for his reply, and went on dryly. "I'm sure you haven't heard."

Their short walk ended by a modified pristine white coupé with heavily- tinted windows. She felt him stop and lifted her head to look at the car beside them. "I don't want to drive home; I'll crash her halfway there."

The Batman wasn't planning for her to. "Give me your keys and address." He demanded, knowing full well that she would obey.

"Ah! Okaaaay… Wait." Dutifully, she removed her quilted handbag from her arms and sifted the contents of her bag for the keys.

Passing him the keys, she mumbled her address. In quick succession, he unlocked her car and deposited her into the passenger seat. Behind the wheel of the car, he noticed the Swarovski embellishment on certain parts of the interior and the three teddy bears —a bear sleeping on its side, a bear with angel wings and a tartan bear— occupying the dashboard on the passenger side. If truth were to be told, he took the sight in with some measure of interest before he revved the engine.

She shook her head at the image of Batman in her car. In comparison to his size and the bulk of his costume, the steering he had in his grip and the driver seat seemed too small for him—and that's not considering how he drove with his head bent forwards because of his fake bat ears. For him to be able to get comfortable, she understood why the Tumbler is one hell of an enormous ride.

It didn't take long for her to doze off in her seat and leaving him to the task of tucking her to bed. He, of course, left with her place of living giving her more of an identity than just "that girl". It was on very rare occasions that the Batman did step foot into the residences of those who came his way.

* * *

Chloe Greenwell reveled in the silence that pervaded the Ambergeas Bay Marina at night. The sounds of her footsteps rang loud and clear amongst the yachts that, she was sure, were tirelessly worked on, to make them radiate the luster that she can now see even under the faint moonlight. She took her time to make her way to where she knew her father's yacht was permanently berthed. No, no. She wasn't planning to take her dad's yacht out to the sea to gaze at stars— it's a damned waste of gasoline.

She easily sought out the mentioned yacht and got down to retrieving the inflatable boat that she had stashed somewhere abroad the recreational boat. Good thing that she had done a good job of concealing it from the eyes of the workers who cleaned the yacht thrice a week. God knows the things her father prohibits her from doing— and going out to the sea at night, alone? That was definitely in the lists of things that her father would never, ever let her do. He'd insist that she take the yacht and have someone go with her. That was her dear old dad, all right— still seeing her as the girl who had been brought up with having maids and drivers around 24/7. The fact that she had been living all by herself for eight years now did nothing to make him think of her as someone capable of doing things herself. _Too bad_, she shrugged, _this just means that I'm doing this behind your back._

In ten minutes, she'd done inflating the boat— all thanks to having done it many times in her university days when her boyfriend and her would go fishing on weekends. For her, it wasn't so much as a fishing trip as it was for him. Those frequent outings with him were to her, an opportunity to learn more about boats which had proven helpful in the buying of this boat she had with her now. She had bought the Mercury AirDeck 340 equipped with a AquaGlide Turbo 12V pump not too long ago, and it had proved to be money well- spent. Having returned the air compressor to where it belonged in the yacht, she took her 60's Swiss army backpack from the walkway and got into the boat.

If there was one thing that could look scary when nighttime comes, for Chloe, it was when a body of water takes on the appearance of a never- ending stretch of glistening black surface. She didn't know why but the lightlessness had always managed to make her convince herself that sea monsters — the likes of the Loch Ness Monster— lurks in the sinister- looking depths and would anytime come to the surface and swallow her whole. She definitely shouldn't be thinking about that now seeing as to how she is surrounded by the waters of the Gotham River.

Still, her boat wasn't too far away from the Amerigold Columbus Bridge. The lights— albeit not as bright as those of New York City bridges— still managed to cast its reflection on the water, and she was in the radius of the feeble lighting that it spilled onto the watery surface. It had, by no means, helped make her to be able to settle into a more comfortable position in the space of her boat.

Notorious for its unusually high crime rates, she had been less than willing to return to this city. But she had— and it was only tonight that she realized it was the right thing to do. Unbeknownst to anyone else, she had stumbled upon a city with the least degree of light pollution. She wouldn't mind trading safety for nice skies— after all not everyone living in the city could actually boast that they have a spot where the skies are saturated with almost as many stars as in a rural sky. Having been living in safe places for a long enough time, she welcomed some measure of danger— time to put her martial art moves that had lain dormant for a good period of time to good use. Not to mention that it had took a good chunk of her time to master it, and the fees wasn't cheap.

Despite how much she enjoyed being out in the open waters here, she had the tendency to fall asleep without consciously wanting to. With that in mind, she removed the headphones she had on, sat up from her reclining posture and brought her eyes down to gaze at her surroundings, taking in a different view of Gotham. The physical distance that allowed her to take in the sight of Gotham's skyline wholly now, also served to remind her that she was indeed isolated from the society of Gotham. For the first time in years— hell, in as long as she could remember— she had nothing better to do than to be bothered by the fact that she was painfully alone— maybe not totally alone, she'd made two friends since coming here. Although born here, she was no different from a stranger. Reason why she had never liked the idea of being in a new place— a constant experience in her twenty- seven years of life. She sighed heavily, all too- aware that this being Gotham, her father would encourage her to befriend people from their circle.

Putting her headphones back on, she directed the boat further towards the open ocean. She hadn't planned to return anytime soon, besides she knew that her father would fill her coming nights by having her attend an unending list of events— that practically left her with little time for herself. A gust of wind blew past, and she tugged the front of her denim jacket closer.

Music in her ears and the sky spread out above her form, she missed the presence of a yacht in the vicinity. Even when the recreational boat had gotten a little bit too close to her boat, she hadn't noticed its looming shadow over her, nor have heard the human noises it brought to the quietness of the Lower Gotham Bay. Too late, she heard the sound of air whooshing out of one section of the boat and saw a yacht moving away from her boat. It was only a mater of time before water would get into the boat and she'd be wet all over.

She remembered the device she had to her ears and acted fast— took out a Ziploc bag she had in her backpack, dumped her headphones into it and sealed it back tight. Looking for any sign of who the yacht belonged to, she caught sight of a man she had heard much about in the tabloids and immediately ground her teeth together.

_Bruce Wayne._

She got out of her partially- submerged boat, swimming now. With the strap of her bag around one shoulder, she went for the motor of the boat. Boat gone, she has to at least save whatever she can— and the motor hadn't come cheap. Taking it off from the deflated boat wasn't all that difficult but having to swim and hold on to it was no easy task.

"HEY!" She shouted in the direction of the yacht, flailing her arms. No reaction, they couldn't hear her.

She tried again with her annoyance and anger fuelling the volume of her shout. "HEY! WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?"

She tried shouting his name. "HEY! BRUCE WAYNE, YOU IDIOT! CAN YOU HEAR ME?"

"HEY!" The coldness of the water was getting to her and the clothes she had on was steadily weighing her down and she had to put in more effort to stay afloat, at the same time keeping up with the damn yacht. "BRUCE WAYNE, YOU ASSHOLE— CAN YOU FUCKING HEAR ME?"

If she still wouldn't be getting any reply, she'd be more than glad to start spewing all the colorful words she can think of. And boy, did she know a whole lot of them.

At first, the Danish model had dismissed the sound as something of her imagination and returned her attention to the true crime novel she had in her hands. But she'd heard the same female voice again, sounding more frantic each time. Unlike the few other models who were having a good time with Bruce on the other side of the deck, she was more interested in finishing her book than in the man whom she was good friends with and had the sense to give the voice she'd heard some heed. It was dark out there— not exactly easy to spot anyone in dire need with a single glance— and she had to lean as far out as possible from the railing to look for the source of sound. Little by little, she could make out a shape in the currents of water; her eyes catching sight of a white object and the blue color of denim amid the blackness that is the sea.

"… DON'T CARE WHO YOU'RE FUCKING WITH RIGHT NOW BUT YOU CAN BLOODY GET ON WITH IT LATER!" She heard it again and was wholly sure that there was someone in the danger of drowning anytime soon out there in the ocean.

She wouldn't have minded to jump into the water and save whoever it was, thing was, she knew Bruce was much more suited to the job. Maybe it was due to the fact that he was a man, and that she'd seen him working out more than the average guy. Wasting no time, she went to the where he was and brought him to where she had spotted that someone. It was, however, not without having the other girls throw her some nasty looks.

He shed his white button- down shirt, kicked off his deck shoes and jumped into the water.

By the time Bruce Wayne did come to her aid, Chloe was already shivering from the cold. He felt her shudder when he reached out for her, under the impression that she couldn't swim. She had, instead, motioned for him to take the motor— which she knew still wasn't beyond repair— to the yacht. She made it clear that she could very well swim and followed in his wake.

They both climbed up the carbon ladder that Bruce's model friend had slid out to the water surface for them. In the time that Bruce had been in the water, Erika— the Danish model— had gotten two large towels ready and unintentionally had the other models crowding around her, as they wanted to see what the fuss was all about.

Chloe came up to the surface of the water, sneezing uncontrollably with a still- quivering hand to her nose. It doesn't require a genius to know that her appearance would make her a laughingstock in front of the models who themselves were dressed in bikini tops and skirts that are basically a piece of cloth with a knot. And they had no qualms of making it obvious, with the exception of one brown- haired and brown eyed model who draped a dry towel over her shoulders and passed another towel to Bruce. As she vocalized her gratitude for the bamboo towel, she glared at them— although her drowned cat appearance somehow ruined the effect. With her hair in fat, damp strands and clothes continuously dripping water onto the dark wood deck of the yacht, the towel she had was quickly soaked.

She hadn't so much as thanked Bruce Wayne for jumping into the water, and was swept by a wave of guilt when she heard him telling one of the crewmen to make sure that the motor he had brought abroad is seen to be dried and be made to be running like new. In her midst of deciding whether or not she should be angry with him, Erika came to her side and steered her away from the deck. "Dump that towel, here's another one." As if by magic, Erika produced a new dry towel.

"I think I've more or less heard everything you've been screaming about Bruce," she whispered conspiratorially. "Worry not, he heard nothing and I'm not telling him about it."

She gave the flat- chested, curveless figure of a model a startled look. Erika laughed. "I'm Erika Lundgaard." She stuck out a hand, one that Chloe took with a smile.

"The name's Chloe Greenwell." There was no point trying to dry herself when she had her wet clothes on. She proceeded to remove her wet combat boots— wet shoes are especially unwearable— walking barefoot across the deck was a more welcoming option.

Erika scrunched her nose at Chloe's soaked clothes. "You're getting a change of clothes. Like it or not, you have to wear my clothes."

Chloe shrugged, peeling her top from sticking to her skin. "Anything would be better than these."

Chloe was led into a cabin which she presumed was Erika's and it was in there that Erika asked her to take a shower to get her hair and body cleaned of the saltwater. She readily agreed but not before Erika spotted the bag she had on and told her to leave it in the cabin.

She took the shower on the hottest temperature that she can bear. By the time she was dressed in a Mickey Mouse tank top and denim shorts courtesy of Erika, the shivering subsided completely. "It fits!" Erika exclaimed triumphantly when Chloe exited the bathroom with the clothes fitting her nicely.

"It does," Chloe agreed wholeheartedly, somewhat amazed that clothes for someone as thin as Erika could fit her slim figure. "And I do love Mickey Mouse," Chloe supplied. "Thank you so much."

"No problem,"

Erika made her to sit down on the bed and despite Chloe's protestations, told her that she'll send her wet clothes to the laundry and then send it over to her when it's all nicely folded and ironed. "And I've got you a cup of hot chocolate— you need it." There was no way she'd decline a cup of the beverage even if she believed that she didn't need something to warm her up.

"Are you a good friend of Bruce Wayne?"

"Yes. He's one of the nicest people I have ever known." Chloe raised her brows but said nothing. "Don't judge him from the females he has for company." She turned herself to fully face Chloe. "Oh, and by the way, Bruce had the yacht head back to land."

"You sure he did?" She asked, unsure for this was totally at odds with her pre- conceived notions about him— having read too much of his news in the papers would do that to you.

"Once you get to know him, you'll believe whatever I say about him." Chloe nodded minutely.

Suddenly remembering that, in addition to her clothes, her backpack was also soaked, she jumped up from the mattress. "Whoa, relax." Erika called out.

"It's my bag— hopefully my things are still dry." Sure, she had all her things in Ziploc bags before putting it into her bag, but she still needed to check if she could truly depend on the re-sealable zipper storage bags for the safety of her BlackBerry, among others— when in water.

She breathed a sigh of relief. Erika peered over her shoulder and smiled becomingly. "I wouldn't have thought of that— genius."

Chloe waved a hand dismissively. "It's no big deal, actually." A knock was then heard on the cabin door.

Erika rushed to open it and returned to Chloe's side with the promised beverage. She gratefully accepted it, luxuriating in the warmth of the mug she had between her hands. Had the drink been of a tongue- scalding hotness, she either has a high tolerance for heat or was truly thirsty for she devoured the contents of the mug with an almost greedy intensity.

"Never had much love for hot chocolate myself," Erika remarked.

Chloe realized that Erika had watched her drink and was suddenly self- conscious of the manner she had drunk the drink. "I've been drinking too many cold drinks that I'm missing hot drinks," An effect of having her habitual aversion to hot drinks from her teenage years not leaving her even after having grown up— for uncountable times she'd order smoothies, cocktails or anything cold off the menu at wherever she dined.

Erika smiled in understanding, "The way you drink, it was cute. Good drinks are always served whenever Bruce is around. He makes sure that his guests always have the best."

Erika had not given much thought to the events that had her having a complete stranger in the same room as her, up until now. "How did you end up out there?"

"Um, I was watching stars out there in my boat before this boat you're on came along. Somehow, the person in charge hasn't done a good job guiding this yacht and it collided with my boat and deflated it. That's why."

"That's what happened— Oh my." Erika stared at her, surprised. She took a moment to come up with something more to say. "I should tell Bruce about this. He needs to know that one of his crewmen had been having too many sunset cocktails." Erika knew, without a doubt, that Bruce lived by the rules— this is discounting his occasional blunders— and would tolerate no misbehave when he was in the power to do anything about it. It would also help matters that it was a woman whom he had rescued— and in her opinion, Chloe was worth it. She hadn't known much about Chloe Greenwell but she liked the person she'd known thus far and it didn't hurt that she had tattoos too— testament to her rebellious streak. That her hair was a gorgeous green further strengthened that opinion.

Chloe said nothing in response as that was the best way to let him know that she had only needed his help because he was the cause of it all it the first place. Her going and telling it to his face would seem like as if she wanted him to make up for her having to swim in the ocean at night.

From the corner of her eyes, she saw Erika with her iPhone in hand and was pondering on something that Chloe didn't know what. Next, her face visibly brightened. "Can I have your number?"

"Sure you can," Chloe recited her contact number. "What yours?" It was her turn to produce her smartphone. The other woman promptly gave Chloe her number and while Chloe was typing down the number it came to her that she wouldn't have to worry about returning the clothes she was wearing.

Erika's phone rang. As swiftly as she had answered it, she immediately hung up and stood up, stretching her arms. "You seem relieved— have we arrived?" Chloe asked, referring to the marina.

"So says Bruce," Erika went to one corner of the room and zipped up her luggage bag which Chloe just noticed. Chloe, whose offer to help Erika with the laundry bag that held her wet clothes had been declined, trailed the model's shadow out to where she encountered Bruce Wayne standing by the ninety- foot yacht. At the sight of both of them, he flashed his trademark smile that had been photographed for far too many times whenever he has beautiful women hanging from his arm— with an extra wink directed at Chloe.

"I like you, in fact, a lot." Erika spoke loud enough for Bruce to hear, knowing that he'd know she was bestowing her approval on Chloe. She leaned in a little. "It's nice meeting you, definitely. But I have to go." And in a lower voice, she added, "By the way, he's Cancerian. And I'm an Aquarius." Chloe instantly knew what it indirectly meant because Cancer and Aquarius play a poor game of compatibility when it comes to being in a relationship.

"I'm not interes—"

She was, of course, cut off with a loud "Bye!" from Erika. And that was it. The androgynous- looking model's retreating back was all she could then see.

Chloe spared a glance at Bruce Wayne, feeling very awkward. "Uh- huh…"

Bruce wanted to end the uncomfortable atmosphere. At the same time, he was curious as to who actually was the girl he had encountered as Batman. "Bruce Wayne," He held out his hand.

"Chloe," She almost shoved her hand into his. Having his hand in a grip that resembles nothing of the way a lady would shake hands, she wasn't expecting the feel of the rough palms against hers. They bore no resemblance to the moneyed class that she had been born into and had eventually grown to loathe more than love. A lifetime of growing up around vainglorious, pretentious people had made her tired of women and men alike who'd had the smoothness of a hand lathered daily with a concoction of moisturizing products. Shaking his hands, however, was a refreshing break—leading to a new miniscule want to believe that the press wrote the things they did about him from a stereotypical point of view.

A few seconds later, he pulled away, flashing a grin that seemed to say that he hope they'd meet again. She did what she thought was appropriate by telling him goodbye. Without so much as a backward glance, she got onto her red Ducati bike she had parked not too far away. In the side mirror, she caught sight of a driver behind the wheel of a black Rolls Royce with Erika and Bruce Wayne in the backseat.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Okay... so I've finally got some Batman stuffs out of my head. I hope its an enjoyable (and good) read.**

**And if you've given this fic a go, please drop me a review. As always, constructive criticism is welcomed =D**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Batman belongs to those people at DC Comics, and Christopher Nolan. But my characters belong to only me and no one else.**

* * *

The one and only reason that had led her to be sitting in the same vehicle as her father was that he was her father, and everything he says goes. As the limousine glided through the streets of Gotham, she studiously kept her gaze to her left, looking out of the window. Her current position enabled her to roll her eyes at moments when she really thought that her father shouldn't be repeating himself. Last she remembered hearing him speak about how she should "_Be extra polite when in the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Albright,"_was about five minutes ago and he now again got himself started on the same advice. She couldn't comprehend what the fuss was all about and why her father was telling her this and that—the do's and don'ts. He knew well enough that she wasn't the kind of girl whose every other word out of her mouth was 'fuck' and had no respect for those older than her. _That should suffice_, she reasoned,_as a guarantee that I'd be on my best behavior_, and he ought to get that.

The weight of the clutch on her lap was very much too tempting to resist for she wanted to drown out his voice. It was only through telling herself over and over again that her father wouldn't tolerate the act of her having those earphones on while he was speaking to her that kept her from opening that clutch of hers.

"…my best friend and his son will he there tonight, so be likeabl—"

That was it. For the past twenty- five minutes, she'd try to keep any annoyance she felt to herself but she'd take no more of such talk. "Geez, Dad, I hate to break it to you but its unfortunate that you've got a hateful daughter. So why bring her to a social event?"

"That's because you've never got yourself involved in a serious relationship with any man. And it's time you do something about it." He fixed her a stare that would've sent anyone else cowering.

"I'm not even thirty." And she defiantly stared back at him. Soon enough both father and daughter were engaged in a staring competition.

"But you'll be in three years time— marriage should be your top priority." He told her, shaking his head as he did so.

"I'm not eager to be somebody's woman." She spat the words out. It dawned on her that her father somehow saw the double PhD she had as an added advantage to her eligibility as a man's wife.

"Being somebody's woman isn't a bad thing. Before you'd know it, you'll find yourself attracted to a man's wealth more than the person himself. "

"Is it only me or are you really extending that view to even your own marriage?"

"No. Your mother wasn't that kind of woman." His answer was immediate. "You must've seen women nowadays pairing up with men that are more than twenty years their senior or even with those that are bedridden or wheelchair- bound. Now," He gave his daughter a meaningful look. "…don't start with one of those mysterious electric things between people."

"Wasn't going to." She informed her father. He definitely had a point there, although she did not bother to drill it into his head that she could fend for herself well enough financially, if she wanted to. There was no need for her to marry for money. Not that she would ever do that, anyways.

For that short while that they had until the driver stopped the car at the entrance of the G. Tollivar Art Gallery, her father kept decidedly silent. If she guessed his expression correctly, her father was probably reminiscing the days when Gisella Migliore—her mother— was still alive.

"We're here, sir." The driver—his name she'd discovered, was Tommy— informed them from behind the wheel. She heard him as he removed his safety belt and she herself reached for the door handle. Her father pushed himself off the soft buttery leather seats and then turned to her. "You remember what I said about tonight?"

"I don't have short term memory loss." Bracing herself for the blinding flashes of cameras that would definitely go off upon the exit of her father and her, she gripped her Alexander McQueen clutch with a little more force than necessary.

Before the driver could come over to her side, she was already out of the car, for she still wasn't used to having people opening doors for her. Nevertheless, he still came to her side. Trying to not sound rude, she gently thanked him and told him that he does not have to open doors for her.

His reply of course was, "No, miss, that's my job." Knowing that telling him otherwise would only be a futile effort on her part to not want having doors being opened for her, she offered him a smile, and went to join her father.

There was no further exchange of words between father and daughter as they posed for eager photographers. Courtesy of the nonstop powerful flashes, she guessed there might be more bad photos of her than good ones. _Well, that's their problem, _she figured_._ The flashes were blinding to the point that she wondered if anyone had the good sense to bring sunglasses along to shield their eyes. _If Johnny Depp could have his sunglasses on, then it should be the next big thing on the red carpet… except that only a guy can pull it off._

Inside the building, they rode up in the elevator to the roof garden. As the interior of the lift was roomy, there was no need to worry about stepping on the hem of another person's dress. Also, the elevator was ornate in their interior appearance— with walls of brushed gold and a ceiling of stained glass floral motif in shades of green, purple and the occasional red. There was an elevator operator present— not actually a common sight when users can select their desired floor with the push of a button. Clearly, the guests tonight couldn't bother with round, light- up buttons.

Soon enough, she found herself caught up in the crowd that is here tonight for the Gotham Anniversary Gala. If she hadn't known better, the organizers probably thought that there could be no better place to throw a lavish social event than in a museum founded by a group of businessman and financiers who wanted to bring art and art exhibition to the people of Gotham. They—whoever they were— however hadn't thought of the forced socializing that they're putting her up for.

Neatly, she nipped a flute of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, deciding that alcohol would be her constant companion throughout the night. Knowing her father, he would have stopped her from consuming alcohol if he could but also knowing her father, he knew that to better make her do his bidding, he'd have to let her do it on her own terms— and ultimately a bit more willingly.

Almost immediately, her father led her to where his associates were. _Better start getting my tongue in check. _She couldn't place some three faces, but recognized the rest. As she greeted them after matching the faces with the names in her head, she felt the all too- familiar sensation of being scrutinized upon. It had happened to her often. This time, she guessed they were frowning upon her unconventional choice of hair color, and the likeness of it to the green- haired villain, Joker, who had quite recently terrorized this city. She ignored it, however—wasn't that difficult of a thing to do if she tried enough— and concentrated on being just the 'good girl', smiling as he introduced her to his group of acquaintances. In time, she got to know them enough to come up with her own opinions of them.

Derek Greenwell had only one requirement of his daughter. As far as he was concerned, tattoos ought not to find their place onto the skin of women. He'd seen for himself the various inks his daughter had gotten for herself, not liking it one bit. As Chloe was the only one he'd ever appear in public with— she took after her mother's appearance too much— following Gisella's passing when their daughter was 13 years old, he wanted her to conform to the image of the daughter he wished her to be. With the inability to be as controlling of his daughter as he used to do before she was 18, all he could make her do was to cover up what tattoos she has.

She, for the most part had stopped trying to bother herself with trying to make her father to not look at the negative connotations of tattoos. He would probably not be able to look at it as a form of expressing one's individuality, not now, not ever. By the time she'd gotten a third tattoo inked on the back of her right ankle, she given up on the effort. If anything, his disagreements on her first two tattoos had proven it to her that it wasn't a road worth pursuing. _So why not humor him? _From then on, she'd concealed them all whenever she was out with him. That was part of the reason why she had chosen this dress for the occasion— it made concealing the tattoos she had on her back all the more easier.

In the short span of two hours, her father had her meet more men and women than she could count. Not that they had much of a personality for her to think of them as anything more than the many people she'd pass by when out walking on the streets. She'd decided that— after spotting a gaggle of platinum-blonde women and no one with fashions that could one way or another declare their personal tastes without having too much diamonds dripping from their visible body parts— the champagne that flowed and the canapés that were passed around and consumed were much more enticing.

From Derek's satisfactory look which was directed to himself more than anyone else, Chloe easily deduced that he was pleased for having done enough to make his daughter a known individual in Gotham's social circle. Perhaps, if she could decide on something else to take up in university, she might —a very minuscule possibility— had been able to skip this one. Derek had took the time to sit down with a cigar jutting out from the side of his mouth one night and decided on the future of his businesses. She was his first choice—he told her that he had the utmost confidence in her, because she had proven to have the brains for it— and with that the weight of having to keep her father's empire going bore itself upon her shoulders. So this was essentially her grand debut. After having done all that is necessary to build a reputation for her, he'd sent her on her own merry way. By the way, it wasn't so merry— she'd found that she had too much time in her hands to be able to observe and socialize in abundance. She'd crossed out the socializing at the very first instant and was now left to honing her observational skills.

Sixth glass of bubbly in hand, she staked out a secluded corner of the rooftop terrace, in the shadows of Jeff Koons' _Puppy_. It was a forty- three feet topiary sculpture of a West Highland White Terrier puppy executed in a variety of flowers on a steel substructure that she had previously beheld in front of the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao. From there, she observed the proceedings of the night. Not so much as straining her ears for the snatches of conversation that she would definitely be able to hear, she was caught up more in the appearances of the attendees— the females, to be precise. Comparing it to evenings of previous events that she had attended, there was more fashion panache this evening. It appears that she was one of those very few who had put on a simple ensemble for—quoting her father here—"the top social event that not everyone can be a part of." As far as she had been observing, the guests were divided into two groups of dress— to not having seen it would meant that one was blind. Where the women of one group could simply make heads turn by being in the same room with you— in a good way, the other group had to try painfully hard to make others take notice of them by exposing as much skin as possible, and consequently, even unsightly evidences of their large stores of adipose tissues. The latter was a group made up of 98% of women in their fifties and sixties. If that wasn't a pathetic enough sight, they were the ones who enveloped themselves in furs and wore everything from ultra- luxurious brands— any brand name less famous and they'd think that it doesn't deserve a wearer from anyone of their self- proclaimed ranks. Those were the same bunch of superficial hags who'd go for everything from a Brazilian butt lift to vaginoplasty.

The evening wore on, and it became increasingly apparent to Bruce Wayne that he wasn't the only one, who felt a loss in the sense of belonging— maybe more so, on his part than hers. _She_ was none other than the girl he'd saved as the Batman and irked as the billionaire playboy not too long ago. Just tonight, he'd discovered without too much of a surprise that she was the daughter of Derek Greenwell— mostly known in Gotham as the "Electric Man" for he owned the company that supplied the state with electricity. No, that wasn't all. Considering how everyone is paying him for their electricity usage, it goes without saying that he would know how much money he would be missing out on if he wasn't the one whose company is running the rapid transit system— the main mode of transport for folks here. He is also the chairman and CEO of a holding company that is currently ranked as the tenth largest in the world— Wayne Enterprises is the fourth largest.

He'd seen her stepping away from the red carpet in a middle thigh- high slitted white silk dress and into the gallery, earlier in the evening. With his dates for the night having deserted him and having nothing better to do than inadvertently getting himself into inane conversations about who was the best- dressed this evening and complaining about practically everyone and everything, he'd chosen to have himself for company. But not before— Tamara? Tanya?— had whined in his arms about how Chloe Greenwell had managed to appear in the midst of the privileged elite in a dress fresh- off- the- runway of Chanel's Resort collection. Those were the words that gave him an idea of what he could do to occupy the time he has at his disposal. Picking out her form among the crowd was no hard work and it would have been easier, had he not have to make his way through a dense cloud of overpriced perfumes.

The first thing about her that he realized was that she kept to herself a lot. Secondly, she seemed to have a penchant for the champagne that was poured all evening long. Her boldly- colored mane that had once caught his attention when soaked with seawater didn't fail to do the same to him again. Dressed to the nines with an unorthodox choice of hair color was probably her way of distinguishing herself from the crowd, to declare herself superior to these people in terms of mind and behavior. In his opinion, her choosing to dye her hair in purple, pink or blue wouldn't have made her stand out as much as she did now. The crème de la crème who had been the only strata of society that he had surrounded himself with, was the very thing that had made the rebelliousness she oozed all the more obvious and she got a kick out of that— unconsciously, that is. He hadn't missed the looks rained down on her when she arrived. That, precisely, could be the reason why she didn't want to completely sever all ties with the world that she was born into.

In the stillness of her isolated spot, no one could miss the sound of footsteps, however much the maker of the sound wanted to make his presence to not be known until he wanted it to. She whirled around on her heels, unintentionally refracting incoming light off the shimmering material of her dress.

She raised her brows at the guy with thick, wavy black hair. And there was some form of intelligence behind those dark eyes of his that made her to somehow manage to picture him with black half- rimmed glasses.

"Remember me?" She took in his appearance. He had a skinny tie in the Burberry tartan pattern about the collar of his antique fuchsia- colored shirt. If anything, the fit of his shirt emphasized his tall, lanky figure. And he looked Italian.

"Um…" She ransacked her brain for a fading image of a guy looking like him, not wanting to sound rude by replying him instantaneously. " Afraid not."

He grinned. "You probably wouldn't bother yourself with just any man that comes your way."

"What's that supposed to mean?" She leaned against the glass railing, wincing as she felt the chill of the glass panel from being exposed to the cold night air, when it came into contact with her forearms.

"That," He paused, moving to stand beside her with one elbow resting on the top of the glass strip that went along the circumference of the garden. "…is meant to be a compliment. Most women don't know that they don't have the right to dump a man, not to mention that only a handful can be highly choosy of the male population."

"You're implying two things here— one is that I'm too good for the guys. Another is that you've been dumped by women a few times too many." Her eyes twinkled with amusement.

"It was meant to be a compliment." She smiled lightly in return. For it was only polite to do so. "And by the way, it was always me who decide on the ending of the relationships I have."

"I don't think you'd come here only to compliment a person on their looks."

"True. I wasn't going to just walk away like that, Ms Greenwell." _Yeah? Then what?_

"You're trying to make me ask for your name, aren't you?" She cast him a disbelieving look.

He shrugged. "Since you couldn't remember that we've just met not too long ago… earlier in the evening, it's only normal for me to want you to at least show some interest."

"I'll play along if that's what you want— Your name?"

"Marco Alessandra Cianciana. But you can call me Marc." He grinned boyishly. "Actually, I've seen you around Harvard for quite some time." This conversation definitely wasn't what she had expected. It also proved that she was right about him being smart.

"So that's what all this is about, huh?" She drained the meager remains of her flute. "You should've just got on with your curiosity in the start."

He shook his head, as if dispelling the atmosphere between them that had took a different turn with her comment that would've been interpreted as rude by most, especially the kind of people who was here tonight. "If I've guessed correctly, having one doctoral degree isn't enough for you. Why shouldn't it be?"

"Tell me first what you are doing there yourself. And are you digging around about me?"

"There's no wrong in digging around about you, is there?" He smirked. "I studied for my Chemistry PhD there. Your turn,"

"You sure you really want to know? You probably can't take it." She was teasing him now.

He thumbed at himself, looking eager. "Try me."

"Okay, well, I wanted two PhDs. I needed some qualification as a testament to my personal achievement— I don't want to only be known as my dad's daughter. That's all." She shrugged.

"Ah- ha. So you _do_ look the part." She was a peculiar sight among the clusters of large trees that occupied some parts of the university grounds, what with her wildly- dyed tresses, and outfits consisting of Chanel jackets, jeans, high- top sneakers and a leather satchel slung across her torso. She hadn't just not dressed like anyone else in the campus, but also thought differently from the females that he had chanced to be in the company of.

"Hey, that sounds offensive." She tried to glare at him but failed as the lilac eye makeup she had on made her look as if she was trying to seduce him with her eyes— something of that sort.

"That's my honest opinion on the way you dress while in Harvard. You're different from most girls— in the university and here." It garnered a sheepish look from her and she proceeded to explain.

"The sneakers aren't mine— it's my boyfriend's."

"Is it safe to say that you aren't with him anymore?" He glanced down pointedly at her pair of heels.

"Yeah," He chuckled at her response.

"What exactly are the two PhDs you have?"

"Astronomy and Theoretical Physics," There was a momentary silence in which he tried to imagine the woman standing in front of him as the female version of Niels Bohr. If her appearance is any indication of how female theoretical physicists would look like, then she certainly has got men started on fantasizing about hot theoretical physicists.

Not too far away, she could see her father's figure as he looked for her in the crowds. She supposed that it was late enough for him to want to get back home. Quite unwillingly, she informed Marc that she had to go.

Before she could turn her back towards him and go her own way, he'd took her hand in his, bent double and kissed the back of her hand. "It was my pleasure meeting you, Dr. Chloe." He winked, looking devilishly handsome. "Have a good night's sleep."

She smiled at him, knowing that she wasn't blushing from the gesture. "Goodnight."

* * *

A booming roar and the glare of high- intensity landing lights penetrating the waterfall alerted Alfred to the Batman's return. Rotors spinning, the Bat flew into the cave, sprinkling Alfred's aged face with a wet spray. Lucius Fox's latest contribution to 'the cause' touched down on a pair of slate cubes that rose to form a landing pad. The canopy opened and Batman emerged from the cockpit as the butler rushed to his side.

With all the tenderness of a mother, Alfred guided Bruce onto the examining table at the center of the cave. He may had received only a distressed call from Bruce but Alfred was always ready for the worst- case scenario and had immediately sprung into action at the bloody bullet wound between Bruce's left shoulder blade.

A lesser man would have asked that a sedative be administered while Alfred took the bullet out, but not Bruce. Alfred glanced at Bruce, noting the clenched jaw and the steely determination in his eyes as he took the pain with almost complete silence. As soon as he pulled the last suture tight and clipped the thread, Bruce spoke up. "It's the deputy commissioner again."

The butler had been an old hand at patching him up but that didn't mean Alfred was alright with seeing the master coming back from a night out with injuries. His hands had faltered for a moment and he knew it was written all over on his face. Bruce saw that the butler was pale and upset and obviously shaken. "He wants to make a name for himself by apprehending the Batman. And God forbid if he does it one day."

Bruce was eager to change the subject, seamlessly bringing it back to the fantastic aircraft that had made escaping from the cops easier than it would have been at ground level. "Lucius outdone himself again this time."

The Bat was an impressive aircraft, Alfred had to admit. Perhaps too impressive. "Is this a publicity stunt?" Alfred snapped. "The Batman leading a bloated, overconfident police force on a merry chase with a new toy from a CEO who moonlights as his armorer?"

Bruce glanced over his shoulder at Alfred who was putting away the medical supplies after cleaning him up. "My sources on the streets informed me that the numbers of missing homeless persons had been rising lately. Someone's taking them off the streets for their own nefarious intent." He had established contacts and networks in the homeless community. In return for them having their ear to the ground and letting the Batman know what they heard, he would give them money so they could live comfortably on the streets. Bruce had seen what little help could do for them when he gave a homeless man his coat and some money the night he stowed away aboard a cargo ship to leave Gotham's central port.

"In this city, sir, it usually is."

"Master Wayne, I suggest that the next time you venture out for information, please do so under the name of Charles Malone." The freelance journalist was an alias that Bruce had created when he was investigating Harvey Dent.

"I'm prepared for all sorts of circumstances in this suit, Alfred. There were no risks the last time I used Charles."

"But, sir, you came back with a bullet in your shoulder. The probability of coming back in the same manner differs greatly when you're not a hunted man." Alfred's words made a whole lot of sense but he wasn't about to admit this so readily.

"I'll think about it. Oh, and Alfred?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do me a favor by picking Edita up from her hotel at 7am for her flight to Naples." He and the Lithuanian model had left the festivities at the gallery behind at an earlier hour than he normally did. Bruce had been relieved, additionally so when the other model, Tamara had told him that she would find her own transportation home which left him having only to listen one of them talk. More like prattling about a _Vogue Italia_ cover.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: Batman belongs to those people at DC Comics, and Christopher Nolan. But my characters belong to only me and no one else.**

* * *

Chloe covered her face with the bolster, shielding her eyes from the brightness of the sunlight streaming into the room. As the interruption failed to wake her up, she continued to sleep with the sunlight on her bolster. For twenty minutes more she slept, and cursed when her alarm clock broke out into its shrill song. With more force than necessary, she slammed her palms on the object to cut off the alarm and cracked open one eye.

_7 am._

She hadn't thought that the first time she'd have to wake up to the early Gotham sun would come so soon. Well, her father had wanted her to spend the day at the company and for that, she has to be there early so as to not miss anything important. Bolting upright against her bank of black pillows, she vigorously rubbed away the sleepiness from her eyes. For a second there, she considered what harm an extra fifteen minutes would do to her and immediately shook her head, rejecting the idea completely. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, reluctantly crossed the threshold of her room and entered the bathroom. An hour later, she emerged from her house with some trepidation— not knowing if she was cut out for the business realm.

To be stuck in heavy morning traffic was an experience not much encountered by Chloe. For all the years she spent in university, she had not much need for a car as the rented house she stayed at was within walking distance of the university. Obviously, she hadn't got the privilege to do the same in Gotham as walking wasn't an option— and her father had forbade her from taking the public transport as a means of getting around in the city. Having always been punctual would mean that being late wasn't her thing and it would have warranted her to have a few curses hurling around in the confines of the car. She, however, hadn't done so as there was no real urgent reason to be there. Had she not stopped by the bakery— one of the best in Gotham— to grab some breakfast, for having intentionally not taken her first meal of the day at home, she'd already be at her father's company.

Greenwell Center hadn't bothered to wrestle the title of the tallest skyscraper from Wayne Towers. Where the latter reigned supreme in height over all buildings in Gotham, the former prevails as the greenest skyscraper in the city and was among the most notable green design skyscrapers in the United States. Initially, Chloe hadn't believed she'd heard right for her father made money from electricity and more than likely, he wouldn't have cared about owning a building with a Leadership in Energy and Environmental Design (LEED) Platinum status. She had read about its design that incorporates many features for increased energy efficiency, and ever since then the details practically got stuck in her head.

_The curtain wall, fully glazed with low-e glass, maximizes natural light within the building while the ceramic-rod screen helps block direct sunlight and reduce cooling loads. Mechanized shades controlled by sensors reduce glare, while more than 18,000 individually-dimmable fluorescent fixtures supplement natural light, providing a real energy savings of 30 percent._

_Environmentally friendly gas-fired absorption chillers, along with a high-performing insulating and shading curtain wall, ensure that the building does not need to be heated or cooled for the majority of the year. A natural gascogenerationplant provides 40 percent of the electrical power to the space within the building, with the waste heat used for heating and cooling. Floors utilize a raised floor system that allows for underfloor air distribution, which requires less cooling than a conventional ducted system. Also incorporates free-air cooling, bringing in outside air when it is cooler than the interior space, which saves additional energy._

_The building uses solar and fuel cell technology._

It was 9. 25 when she got her car in one of the few empty parking lots at the front of the building. Hurriedly and more occupied with getting to the floor that houses her father's office, she was blissfully unaware of the security guard that was close on her heels. Had she seen him earlier, she would have increased her pace to avoid him altogether and ran for the almost closed doors of one of the elevators.

She had no such luck and so here she was, with the said guard who hadn't planned to let her get away with parking in the reserved spot. "Miss, you can't park your car there. It's only for those permitted by Mr. Greenwell."

"He's my dad. No worries," She informed him quite cheerily, turning around slightly to face him as she removed her floral shades.

Obviously, he didn't believe her. It was his job requirement to make sure that those who parked there are indeed allowed to park there at any given time. "Miss, I need some sort of identification for that."

"Identification? No prob," She heard one of the elevators as it dinged open. "You might have seen the photo of me and Derek Greenwell in the papers recently— at the Gotham Anniversary Gala, no less." Entering it, she smiled at him good- naturedly.

His reaction was not unpredictable. He had more or less expected the daughter to Derek Greenwell— he'd overheard about her existence when the office staffs were talking— to be looking and behaving more like your usual rich offspring; not at all like the owner of the Maserati who hadn't got irritated with him as most of them would when faced with those they consider inferior to them in terms of status, connections and wealth. Making a mental note to search the last week's copy of the Gotham Gazette, he went back to the spot where he kept a lookout for cars that parked in the space that only a privileged few were given the consent to do so.

* * *

The fifty- ninth floor of the skyscraper was where Derek Greenwell sealed all his multi- billion dollar deals. And it sure looked the part. For one, the antiques that made up the décor in itself cost him a great deal of money— common sense on her part as she had never been to all those auctions where he bid for what she now saw. Perhaps the design bordered on being minimalistic— not exactly his taste— what with the plain window treatments, a place for everything that needed to be out of sight and subdued colors but maybe that was what he was after. He wanted it to be such so that the antiques he painstakingly procured would be all the more obvious to the eyes of the people that he does business with.

She had expected for this floor to be a constant hive of activity— or at least bear some resemblance to a Fortune 500 company— but that morning, all was still. The silence brought a dawning realization that there was probably a meeting going on in the boardroom. No wonder she had popped her head into the office and had found it to be empty, save for the gentle strains of classical music. Plus, there was no sign of the executive assistant anywhere. To prove her right, she strained her ears and picked up the sound of voices in deep discussion.

Her father should have told her earlier about this. Curbing any feelings that she had against him for how she was about to make a total spectacle of herself in front of his business fellows and with a deep breath, she knocked twice on the boardroom door. There was no escaping from what awaited her at the other side. He insisted that she come— give the place a once- over, make an appearance— as she was heiress to the ever- expanding business organization belonging to him. Pushing it open, she greeted the corporate men and women who had their gazes fixed on her. "Morning, peoples."

She hadn't expected for any reply and wasn't disappointed.

Promptly, she closed the door behind her and eyeing the one empty seat beside her father's executive assistant, quickly joined them. On the way to where she had planned to sit, she paused behind her father's chair at the head of the table, whispering. "Sorry, dad. I swear this will be my first and last time."

His expression didn't change but she felt some changes in the way he looked at her from when she was at the door. "Let's resume."

The issue at hand turned out to be a plan about tapping into the estimated $1 trillion worth of various minerals buried beneath Afghanistan's deserts and mountains. Apparently, this source of wealth had been discovered just last year by a team of Pentagon officials and American geologists. While she digested all this information and listened intently to all that was spoken, she noticed an omnipresent greedy gleam in most of their eyes. Understandably, she was having a hard time to not attempt judging others from a universal want. As much as she didn't think that she was as money- minded as her dad or any of them business people here, she knows and believes that, in a way, money is something that makes the world go around. Even before having their greediness reaffirmed in front of her eyes, she wasn't under the impression that they were in any way, kind souls. If there was indeed anyone among them who had the slightest care about goodness and charitable behaviour and concern for others, it had to be the one living Wayne. She would give Bruce Wayne that much for he had shown with many very large checks that he actually cared about improving the lives of those less fortunate than him. If anything, this generosity coupled with his most recent donation of five million to an ambitious coral restoration project that was touted as the largest in the world only raised the billionaire in her estimation.

She happened to glance at the opposite side of the table, not at all expecting to see the man whose name had been in her head and almost choked on the water she drank from the bottle of Perrier water that was provided for everyone in the room. Earlier, when she had given the men and the one woman around the table a once- over, she had missed him entirely. She allowed herself a moment to take in his looks, not having been paying much attention to the photos of him she so often glimpsed upon in the Gotham Gazette which her father had made sure to send to her on a weekly basis. He was dressed in a grey suit and purple tie, making her feel a little less like an odd duck in her tangerine fluid pantsuit and obi belt. For some reason, the majority of working people loved to dress as if they're cleaning out the garage and would give those who preferred to dress as if they're beacons on a grey, overcast weekday the critical eye. He caught her staring at him and winked. She, of course, ignored him and redirected her gaze elsewhere.

This meeting was making her to start thinking that, _maybe—_a very massive maybe; business wasn't her kind of thing. _Covet the resources of another nation. Start a war in said coveted nation. Invade that land. Rape the resources. Exit that land. Leave her people buried under unsustainable sovereign debt as they struggle to pay for your war. Find a new country to covet. Wash-Rinse-Repeat._ She sighed softly, not at all expecting that her father would hear it.

"Chloe, I believe you have some opinions of your own that you want to add." Clearly, his tone brooked her no other choice and she would try using this opportunity to try making them feel not so confident about the whole deal.

"True, the potential rewards are off the charts. But to be able to exploit those huge veins of iron, copper, cobalt, gold and critical industrial metals, we have to take absurd risks. There are reasons for invaders since the time of Alexander the Great to dream of exploiting it but had never succeeded on a large scale. Armies of Persians, Greeks, Mongols, Britons, and Russians had all once tramped above this one same region." Here, she paused meaningfully. "Now, more than ever, violence is at its worst since the beginning of the American- led occupation in 2001. The Taliban have made a point of killing Westerners and have specifically said they would attack any companies involved in mining. And then there's the Afghan infrastructure—god knows how much of power big mines need. Outside cities, only 15% of Afghanistan is electrified. The mountain roads—ungraded and often without guardrails— are perilous. You crash, you _die_. And," _If you aren't freaked out yet._"… The country's governance and corruption problems should make you pause and think this thoroughly. Massive fraud marred recent elections. Transparency International rates Afghanistan as the second most corrupt country on earth after Somalia."

Slowly, she became aware of the many eyes watching her. Not knowing of what to make from the attention she was getting, she glanced hesitantly at her father. Thankfully, he noted how uncomfortable she was feeling and cleared his throat. "Ladies and gentlemen, I need not remind you that to all things business there are certain risks to be taken. I would appreciate it if we could have another meeting in two weeks time and come to a decision that would be beneficial for all of us."

A murmur of agreement went through the businesspeople and the date for their next meet was set. They all stood up now and started to leave the boardroom. While they were at it, Chloe downed the remains of the bottled mineral water that stood relatively untouched in front of where her dad previously sat.

"Chloe, come to my office." She heard her father's voice from outside the room. _Yessir._ She wouldn't bother replying though, knowing with certainty that her father wouldn't have heard her. And if he did, he'd just ignore her.

She went to the chair she had been sitting on earlier and retrieved her Fendi python bag. With a start, she realized that she wasn't alone. Expecting to see someone that her father had sent to tell her to hurry up and not make him wait for her, she turned her head quickly. It was Bruce Wayne.

"You left something?" She asked.

"No." He advanced a few steps. "You remember Erika, don't you?" She nodded, knowing exactly what would come up next. "She told me about that night on the yacht. And I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry."

She quirked an eyebrow, "You're sorry. Okay, I've heard you."

"I know I don't sound the part," He looked appropriately guilt- ridden. "What about joining me for lunch after this? I'll make it up to you."

She shook her head. "You've apologized. This ain't any big deal."

"You see, you don't think I'm being sincere here." He pointed out, not unreasonably.

She shrugged, indicating that she had better things to do with her time. "I can think whatever I want,"

"Well," He chuckled. "It wouldn't hurt to have lunch with me."

"Too bad, we think differently." She paused. It appeared to her that going out for lunch with him might be a wee bit more preferable than hanging around in this building. "You know a good place to eat?"

If he was surprised by her change of mind, he didn't let it show. "Plenty," He smiled.

"Look, my dad wants to have a word with me. I gotta—" She explained, gesturing towards the door with her thumb.

"Take your time. I'll be waiting for you at the entrance."

"Uh, thanks." She gave him a brief smile and disappeared behind the doors of the boardroom.

* * *

To those who knew Derek Greenwell on a more personal level, more than just someone whom they'd want to be affiliated with in all things that screamed money- making, they would know him as a tea connoisseur. People of his age and wealth usually spent their money on drinking, women and smoking but not him— although, he do burn off his money puffing away on Cuban cigars. In that sense he was probably the best father someone in her society can have.

Chloe knew, from all the little times that she had spent with him, that he hawks high- end Japanese green tea, Taiwanese Oolong, Darjeeling, Pu-erh, white tea and yellow tea— one of those things that he had rubbed on her. But where he is waxing lyrical about his teapot collection, she had no interest in them.

That afternoon, as she drummed her nails against the stainless steel frame of the sofa in his office, she looked on wordlessly when he poured out tea from a purple clay teapot with practiced ease. He then proceeded with pouring the tea out of a red clay tea vessel, into two porcelain cups.

She sipped the pale green to light gold- colored brew from one of the cups and Derek now spoke. "The Pentagon memo that outlined the discovery had said that Afghanistan could become the "Saudi Arabia of lithium."

"So?" She prompted, wanting him to get on with what he had in mind.

"This is the time for the adventure venture capitalists like us— those who can do business in tough places in the world. However, at the end of the day, this project is about progress for the Afghan people and giving them the prospect for a much brighter future for them and their families." _More than the good it does to your bank accounts right?_

"Why exactly are you telling me this?" She feigned ignorance, knowing full well that he was good at reading her mind.

"You're my daughter. I don't need you to tell me everything to know what I want to know."

She relented. "I'm not to keen on this whole idea. Sure, this project will persuade the citizenry to support the government rather than support the Taliban. That's good and I know it, but I really can't see it for only that."

He nodded, completely understanding where his daughter came from. There is still much more for her to learn about the ways of the world that he had wanted her to be in. "You've delivered more than I had expected just now. That's my girl." Derek nodded in satisfaction, pleased to know that he had made the right choice. He can be rest assured that the highly- profitable enterprises that bore testament to his achievements in making money would be left in good hands. But he knew that this was easier said than done because while what she had proven to him today had made him less doubtful about her talents in this industry, had she decide to not step up in her game, she'd sooner or later bring all that he had worked for come crashing down. "But it is not sufficient if the company were to be yours one day and remain in the family."

This was exactly the way she had been brought up in. No matter how much she worked for something, he'll always ask for more and she would always deliver the results he wanted. This time, those words would once again serve her well. If the company was to be hers in the future, she should start doing her part to prove to herself— more than anyone else— that there was nothing she can't do. "I will." He saw the determination that flashed across those identical luminous, soft medium green orbs— the only feature belonging to him that she inherited.

"Dad," She began. "My friend called sometime ago for lunch…" Then trailed away, feeling horribly guilty. It wasn't in her nature to lie, but she had to. Had she told her father straight out that she was going out for lunch with Bruce Wayne, he would be over the moon. Not that he thought his daughter would lose out to other females in relationships or when it comes to the opposite sex, but she was no marriage material. He wants her to hold on to any man that she has in her grip and get married as soon as possible— he had expressed it clearly enough. She could care less about the matter.

"You go ahead with your plans. I'll be fine by myself."

"Sorry—"

He cut her off. "Don't be sorry. Show me what you've got to keep this company in one piece. That's all I ask for."

* * *

Her knowledge of cars was one that had been nurtured mostly by monthly subscriptions of Car and Driver, watching Top Gear on DVD and going to the annual Detroit, Geneva and New York Auto Shows without fail. And add watching FIA GT1 World Championships to that. She had seen more than enough fancy cars to last a lifetime as the crowd her father mingled with drove cars that were not in the price range of the general masses. But that did nothing to stop her jaw from dropping at the sight of the Reventón in front of her.

Her reaction wasn't that of any other woman he had known as all the models and actresses that had been in this car with him had taken an immediate dislike to the carbon fiber exterior. At some point, he had thought that preference for the "mid opaque grey without the usual shine" paintwork was a guys' thing— apparently it wasn't. Amused by the whole exchange and her utter obliviousness to him in the car, Bruce Wayne exited the vehicle, stood by and watched her. He too, heard the amazement expressed in her voice.

She almost pressed her face against the window of the passenger side in an attempt to see the number which each Reventón was stamped with between the driver's and passenger's seats. "Awesome, it's the third one produced out of twenty." The statement was confirmation enough for Bruce that she knew a whole lot more about cars than the average female.

She blinked then, realizing that he joins the ranks of the few people she'd knew who had the most expensive Lamborghini road car to date. Not to mention that his was produced much earlier than the one her cousin owned.

"I know I'm awesome," He chortled as he came up behind her.

"Don't be too proud about being awesome. If anything, it's your car that made you awesome." Chloe shook her head to pull herself back together and stood to her full height. She noted their difference in height, guessing that as she stood at 5'9, he would be around 6'2.

"I'm sure you don't have to ogle at it. You could afford to have one yourself." He stated, unlocking the scissor doors and pushing up the passenger- side door for her.

She got into the car at the same time as he did. "My dad didn't agree with me driving a car that is more suited to a guy. He wants me to drive a car that looks feminine." Lamborghinis, in Derek's opinion, are to be driven by the guys; Ferraris and Maseratis are for the girls. It was pretty obvious that she thought that her dad was being ridiculous.

She wanted to test how much he knew about the car. "Tell me what's so great about your car."

He got into his 'Brucie' Wayne mode. "I don't know," He shrugged. "I think I heard somewhere that there's only ten of these in the country?"

Chloe wanted to hit her head on the dashboard. To say that she was irritated was an understatement. His car deserved an owner who knew more than he did. How was it even possible for him to not realize that his car was a rarity? And to imagine that she had, for a moment expected him to know about the technical specifications.

Taking her time, she feasted her eyes on the interior of the car. The first time she was inside the Reventón belonging to her cousin, she had been rather infatuated with the instrument panel, especially the G- Force meter. This time wasn't much different.

"I've known that Derek Greenwell had a beautiful daughter, but this is the first time that I— or anyone else in the Gotham scene— had seen her in person. You don't like it here?"

She ignored the complimentary remark— that's playboys for you, it is their nature to be highly appreciative of women. "You're being rather blunt." She pointed out, matter- of- factly. "Mr. Wayne, let's just say that those kind of people you hang out with get on my nerves." After having only once rubbed shoulders with the bluebloods of Gotham, it would be too early to say that she hated them. A matter of time; ultimately she would come to hate them.

"They tend to do that to me too." He admitted.

Her eyes were riveted on her smartphone, browsing the tweets on her Twitter timeline. "Yeah, sure you do."

"That's the truth," He said defensively and she glanced sideways at him. "Call me Bruce. Mr. Wayne gives the impression that I'm an old man, totally oblivious to the pleasures of life." Derek Greenwell certainly wouldn't like that statement— Chloe briefly humored the idea of telling him what Bruce Wayne thought about old men, just for the fun of it.

From the corner of her eyes, she saw him deliberately looking her over, and the glance told her everything she needed to know about what he had meant. She knew that the gesture was nothing she should be cautious about. Women are attracted to him like bees to honey, so much that he wouldn't even have to force himself on them— they'd force themselves on him before the night is over and do all they can to satisfy him in every sexual way possible.

She realized the lack of music in the car. "Can I turn on the radio?"

"Sure," She reached for the radio controls on the dashboard, only to have him beat her to it. "What do you listen to?"

"My tastes are varied," He got the hint and returned his attention to the steering wheel, giving her total control over the audio in the car. He watched her, pausing sufficiently long enough at each channel for her to be able to mutter the title of the song to herself before she moved on. She then settled on one of her all- time favorite rappers.

Bruce broke the silence with a question that caught her off- guard. "What do you think about the Batman?"

"The Batman?" She echoed while putting away her phone for this topic of conversation seemed interesting. When she spoke up again to answer his question, she sounded thoughtful. "I heard about him through the papers my dad sent to me while I was studying in another state. He seemed too good to be true. I mean, who would spend their time and money— not to mention putting their life on the line— to clean up streets that were littered with the evils of man. My second night in this city was all it took for me to not dismiss him as an urban myth. He saved me from this perv when I was out alone at the streets with my drunken ass in tow. Without him, I really don't want to think what will become of me."

"He taught you a lesson, huh?" He faced her. They were at a stoplight now.

"I doubt anyone could have taught me better." Next time when she's out for a night of heavy drinking, she'd better find someone to drive her home.

"But he killed Harvey Dent, the DA." Bruce protested.

"Well, you weren't there to witness whatever that had gone down that night. Who are we to say that what the media told us was true? If they had indeed told us the truth, I'm still on team Batman. It's high time that he kill someone anyways. You shed some blood, people gonna believe that you meant business."

"You're advocating for a hunted man, do you know that? Not to mention a killer." The stoplight turned green and he returned his attention to the road in front.

"Let whomever that thinks otherwise hate me all they want. Screw them." She declared.

"Actually, I'm one who thinks otherwise." A look of mischief came to his eyes. "I wouldn't mind to have you screw me."

"Sorry to disappoint." He looked at Chloe. "That was meant only as a form of expression. Don't take it too literally."

"Whatever," She waved him away. "Keep your eyes on the road. I don't want you to crash this one like you did your LP 640." It further proved to him that she was into cars.

"What's a guy to do to not take it literally?"

Back to his opinions about the Batman, "Whoever he is, he has some serious issues to deal with. He's probably unhappy with the world and thinks that he could single- handedly make the world a safer and happier place."

"Speak for yourself. Why do you bother with charity work? The difference between you and him is that he's more determined and meaner. He trusts no one but himself and sacrifices his whole life to protecting a city that is densely populated with people who don't appreciate his efforts."

"You're a true fan of his— that much I can tell." Should he be offended with what she said? Or feel glad that there are still those who believe him to be the good guy? It was definitely the latter.

"I respect him greatly." She turned up the volume of the now playing song that is Lupe Fiasco's _Words I Never Said_. "It's pointless anyways." Chloe sounded regretful. "The time when I have the chance to properly thank someone for helping me out has to be the time when I've consumed too much alcohol."

"Who knows, you might bump into him again." He said this casually; his mind however, was in the midst of weighing the risks of dropping by her place as his alter- ego. It would definitely be better to consult Alfred on the wisdom of that decision.

* * *

Chloe's face lit up. "Really?" As Bruce pulled the car into the parking lot— having decided to skip valet parking— opposite the place they would be having lunch, he assured her that she need not worry about them getting the best table in Gotham's newest Italian restaurant.

The details of this dining sensation was more of less forgotten to her but if she hadn't seen the article in some magazine wrong, it was a relatively new place that had earned two Michelin stars. That and the fact that it serves Italian cuisine was reason enough for her to take a liking to Bruce.

"I acquired the place a few weeks back," He sounded smug, she had to give him credit for knowing how to impress.

Having killed the engine, he exited, circled the vehicle and went to open the passenger door for her. She declined the hand he held out for her to take. It doesn't require a genius to figure out that this is a place that drew most of its clientele for the chance to be seen and to let the world know that money is no object. Being that, if she were to be seen in there walking hand- in- hand with the man who owned Wayne Enterprises, her dad was bound to get wind of it and he'd pressure her to get into a relationship with him because— who wouldn't want their daughter to marry a rich guy? Right, as if she'd ever let that happen.

Her preconceived notion of the place wasn't off the mark. They emerged into glittering seafood establishment, Marea— Bruce had enlightened her that it meant "tide" in Italian, much to her annoyance and she told him that her mother was Italian. It had all the trappings of a formal dining establishment, appearing sleek and modern in alabaster and imported Italian wood. The floors and walls are fashioned from lacquered Indonesian rosewood, like something you'd find on a Saudi sheikh's yacht. The dining room is decorated with twirling seashells hand-dipped in silver, and the fish—she suspected are flown in from oceans around the world—are paraded among the tables, for diners' inspection, on glass-covered trolleys heaped with crushed ice. Amid the old-world New York glitz and sophistication ambience, were banquettes sheathed in chocolate- colored pebbled leather that were occupied by suited men and women in couture. "I'm sure acquiring this place is a smart decision."

"It sure is," He agreed as a waiter decked out in butcher apron showed them the way to their table.

They sat down and wasted no time in picking up each of their leatherbound menu and began perusing it. The contents of the menu boasted Italian coastal cooking with house specialties including an extensive crudo selection, an east- and west-coast oyster bar, Italian caviar and unique fish creations such as grilled Hawaiian swordfish with peaches and almonds or Adriatic seafood soup.

"Are you okay with us having wine?" Bruce questioned from behind the menu.

"Depends on which you plan to have,"

"I was thinking about the Montrachet wine…" She agreed with his choice. Without so much as a gesture for the waiting staffs to attend to them, a waiter with the nametag that read Josh took down their orders.

Their first meal together was spent in a mood that is convivial, casual, and approachable than might be expected considering as to how she didn't think that she could carry out conversations about anything with him. But they had and it gave her more insight into the who's who of Gotham, courtesy of Bruce who hadn't minded much about her asking him loads of questions. He even included his personal thoughts about them which Chloe hadn't thought him capable of having as he was very much like them— lesser now as he told her that his parents, the deceased Thomas and Martha Wayne weren't anything like them.

Amiably they chatted over the wave of small-plate items from the kitchen, ranging from the ordinary— gummy cubes of yellowfin, flat pieces of Long Island fluke crudo— to the semi-sublime— sea urchin with lardo, tangles of cuttlefish _tagliatelle_. True to the Bruce Wayne style, he made sure that they do not skip the ostentatious _Ostriche e Vongole & Caviale _section of the menu, including the Calvisius caviar from Italy that costed $120 per ounce.

"You know, I feel like the pasta is a little bit too much on the large side." Chloe told Bruce as the waiter brought in Bruce's fusilli smothered in a delicately braised octopus ragù and her crab-and-sea-urchin spaghetti.

Bruce gazed down at the grand entrée-size pasta portions when it was finally in front of him, and the sense of overkill was magnified. "I'm sure I can finish your side of the meal somewhat." He suggested.

It was now her turn to gaze at the lumps of heart- stopping bone marrow after having taken in the lustrous, exotic quality of her pasta. If anything, she hadn't expected for his words to be as such. "I'd thought that you'd just throw away what you can't finish. Most people do, by the way."

"I know better than to waste food when there are so many less unfortunate people out there who would give anything to eat an extravagant seafood meal." That the pasta he had didn't look appealing was lost on him. Little did he know that this very statement had altered something within her. There was more to him than she had initially assumed.

They took their time with the food and it disappeared soon enough without any feeling that they stuffed themselves full. Next up were the seafood they ordered from the trolley cart. His fish was the ivory-colored black bass, while she who was not a real fan of fish had ordered a seafood risotto. He had offered her to try his fish dish and she did, enabling her to conclude that the fish was straight from the sea with that crisp, popping flavor from impeccably cooked fish. She too, offered for him to have a taste of her risotto, along with an elaborate $45 _bordetto di pesce_ soup from Italy's Adriatic coast which in her opinion made her to wish having tried the Columbia River salmon poached in duck fat and she vocalized as much to him.

In return, he stared at her, incredulity creeping into his voice. "Are you sure that you aren't committing the number one offense of dieting?"

"Positive. The last thing I'd ever do is to starve myself mad." Before she could return her attention to her almost finished risotto, however, she was momentarily distracted by a face she recognized from five tables away. "Damn." She muttered, not lost to Bruce's hearing.

"What is it?" He immediately became alert, glancing at her and then turning his body to look at where she was looking at. "Oh," Bruce instantly divined with a wicked gleam coming to his dark brown orbs.

She threw him a glare, very much aware of the fact that he could easily make them— Mrs. Hackman and a redhead— notice their presence here. Worse still, he could invite them to join the both of them at the table where she had realized that Bruce was a fairly good dining companion— well, the best you can get. "Don't you dare get them coming here," Chloe warned.

A moment's heavy silence followed her words that were void of anything friendly. "One thing I've learned from you all women is that when you anger them, they'll give you this look that make them look really sexy."

"I wonder what you all guys would think about a female who goes around wanting to seek vengeance on the male population by seducing them and killing them afterwards." She mused. "That's sexy for you?"

"I'm not into the murderous kind," He clarified and then sounding inquisitive, asked her, "Mrs Hackman is bearable company, what makes you to not want her to come anywhere near us?"

"She talks too loud," Chloe confessed, knowing that the truth would make him to not go all out to irritate her further as she had given him what he wanted to know without any fight. "And in case you haven't noticed, I'm trying to keep a pretty low profile around here," She cast a furtive glance around at their surroundings.

Bruce watched her as she did just that. "That would be impossible when you have green hair." Absently, she touched the hair that was dyed in her favorite color. "Not to mention that you were at the Gotham Anniversary Gala," The Gotham Gazette had done quite an extensive job at uncovering the identities of the attendees, that much she knew. But there was no harm trying, was there?

"Dr. Chloe!" Came the voice belonging to the wife of Darren Hackman, a self- made financier who was a small, and frail unassuming sixty year old who dressed and acted not like a man whose occupation has upscale and haughty connotations. His wife, Katherine was a different story altogether in terms of appearance and attitude.

Chloe swore under her breath, a little too loud and someone other than Bruce would have heard her had it not been because of the woman's loud voice which rose above all else.

"Dr.?" Bruce was looking at her in wonderment.

"Yeah, I know I didn't mention it earlier," She nodded, making a face at the revelation the woman had brought along with stopping by their table.

Mrs. Hackman turned to Bruce, putting a hand on Chloe's shoulder. "This young woman here is one the best that you can ever get for yourself, She's a breed apart. I'll advise you to hold on tight to her." Chloe winced, looking anywhere but at the white tablecloth.

"I'll take that under advisement," Bruce nodded, sounding exceedingly serious. Chloe chanced a look at him and saw him smirking.

Mrs. Hackman carried on, taking Chloe's hands in hers. "Derek brought you up well. Oh, and my nephew wanted to invite you to the opening of his new club— said that you'll be_very_interested in it. Would you come? You know how much he enjoyed your company. He just couldn't stop talking about what an amazing woman you are!" All this while, she resisted the urge to tell Bruce to mind his own business as he was listening very intently to a conversation that he no doubt found humorous.

"Errr…" Chloe hesitated. "What's his name? Your nephew I mean?" She didn't like this whole conversation at all.

"Marco! You haven't forgotten him, have you?" Mrs. Hackman scrutinized her face. "How could you?"

"I remember him." Chloe assured her. The older woman smiled in satisfaction. And just as she had appeared so suddenly, she left their table just as abruptly in a swish of red that is her Oscar de la Renta dress.

With profound relief, Chloe exhaled a breath and leaned against the back of her seat, gratefully sipping from her glass of wine as she did so.

"Wow." Bruce remarked. "I didn't know that you had such a fan."

"I'd rather do without them, unlike you who need to keep your ego up with the knowledge that you have a huge following in Gotham." She poured herself a second glass of the white wine. "God, those females just drool at the sight of you."

"How'd you know?" He asked interestedly. "Are you one of them?"

"You'd be disappointed to know the answer," With that, she got down to eating the food she hadn't finished earlier. Bruce followed suit.

The desserts arrived and were proficient, in a classic gourmet way. Where they hadn't minded sharing earlier, now both parties weren't very willing to share their dense hazelnut torte and the rich chocolate panna cotta with the other.

As she was about to consume more wine, Bruce stopped her in her attempt to reach for more alcohol. "Only if you can stomach all that wine at this time of the day."

"Do I look that lousy?" She removed her hand from his grip. "No. Besides, you're not doing a good job at drinking it. Better let me drink it all."

He let her do as she pleased, passing the bottle of wine to her. "I want to know about Mrs. Hackman calling you Dr. . Why?" Mrs. Hackman could have been referring to either a doctoral degree or a medical doctor and he wanted to know..

"She knew about my PhDs, I guess." Chloe tried her best to make it sound like no big deal. To her, it wasn't. With the sole want to be more knowledgeable in all things Astronomy and Theoretical Physics— the two things that she had been obsessing about throughout her school years— her father gave her the green light to study those two up to any level she wanted but not without very obvious hints that he wanted her to study for a MBA.

"How many?" Truth to be told, his first impression of her had been along the lines of a spoiled brat and a party girl — apparently he had been wrong, very much so. Here with him now was a woman who wanted something more out of her life, not content with simply being another socialite and heiress.

"Two. One in Astronomy and another in Theoretical Physics. Honestly, why are you interested?" She wasn't too keen on publicizing facts about the qualification she had acquired. A preference that came to be part of her because she didn't want to be regarded as a single entity with the snobbery that outsiders believe infected Ivy League colleges. Not that she had any experience with people who believed it to be true that rich, fancy, stuck-up and possibly dangerous intellectuals who never sit down to supper in their undershirt however hot the weather gets, were all over the place in these universities. To her, the liberalism and elitism represents a philosophical enclave and not a statement about class.

"I've studied at Princeton. For all we know we could be university mates." He knew better, in truth, there was no possibility for such coincidence. He was nineteen when he got accepted into Princeton University. Unless their IQ level was on par, and for now, he believed and doubted it in equal parts.

"Princeton? I was at Harvard." She pulled her attention away from the wine and was now looking at him in undisguised astonishment— she tried to do away with the pretentious pleasant attitude whenever she could, expressing what she truly felt— with her head resting on both her elbows that was on the table. He was in an Ivy League constitution as she did. "Well, well, who would've known."

"I didn't last long there." He supplied. No need to let her know that he stopped studying at some of the most prestigious universities worldwide because he had intended to kill Joe Chill, whose prison sentence was being suspended in exchange for testifying against Carmine Falcone.

"Bet you liked it there only to go after the most popular girls." He nodded, agreeing wholeheartedly.

"There's something you missed out though— at least I know what their motto is. _Dei sub numine viget_."

She cast her eyes upward. "Nice try. But I know the mottos for the remaining seven."

Bruce smiled, raising his glass. Reluctantly, she raised her own. "Here's to you having accepted my apology and new friendships."

They clinked glasses, and she responded. "By friendship, what am I signing up for?"

"Nothing you should worry about. More meals together at the hippest and swankiest places in town would be the most appropriate description of what you should expect."

Chloe sighed. "Has any woman told you no before?" He didn't answer her but he had two women in mind who had never succumbed to his whims. _Mom and Rachel._

* * *

**Review away! And by the way, thanks for stopping by for a read.**


	4. Chapter 4

Finally, after the third time, the ringing of Bruce's phone woke him up. Very unwillingly he rolled over to his side and without opening his eyes, his hands felt their way to the said phone on the nightstand.

He didn't need to look at the caller ID to know who was calling him, the screaming of bloody murder coming from the other line enlightened him as much. "Chloe," His voice was voice rough from sleep and he sounded vaguely disoriented.

"Good, you're awake enough to recognize me pissed off. How in fuck's sake did you get my house address? I sure as hell didn't bring you back to my bed." He knew fully what she was talking about. Just yesterday he had arranged for the motor of her deflated boat to be delivered to her house by today, and the company really had made good on their tagline that packages would be sent to doorsteps of designated recipients at a speed of light that is humanly- possible. Or faster than any of their competitors.

"You're talking to Bruce Wayne here, what do _you_ think?"

"He's an asshole. And I know you can pay people to do a complete background check on anyone you wish to know more about, but you could have _asked_."

_If only she knew_. "It didn't cross my mind at that time. Not when I've got a company to run and the names of too many chicks to remember." He was intentionally proving to her that she was right about him, that he was a rich jerk who could care less about getting her number from her personally. Bruce Wayne, after all was supposedly thought to have his mind occupied with inconsequential things that many others could care less about. Matters like pondering over his car choices for the day or figuring out what Kama Sutra moves he had yet to try out with his assortment of women.

"Oh silly me! Of course its hard work trying to remember that your chick's name is Natalya and not Natasha or Natalia." _Ouch._

In addition to how her retort was meant to make him look at himself in shame, he also hated to think about the disdain that was clear in her voice — which made him want to apologize. "Chloe, I'm sorry."

He heard her disbelieving snort. "You think being sorry would make up for you sending one impatient courier guy to my house and pressing the doorbell like the end of the world is nigh? That is only slightly more sincere than you sending me a sorry text."

"Don't be mean. I feel bad."

"You do?" She sounded like her anger had died down to a sizzle. And she was, but he couldn't have prepared himself for what she had in mind… unless they were face- to- face.

"I am. So let bygones be bygones?"

Her reply was considerably slow in coming. "Hmmm… well… Bruce?"

"Yeah?" Now he was confused.

"Rise and shine, lazy bum!" With that extremely loud exclamation, the line clicked dead as he allowed himself a smile.

Bruce Wayne saw no point in trying to return to the land of sleep that Chloe had roused him from. As he was awake enough, might as well spare Alfred the task of waking him up as he did every morning. Groaning audibly, he hoisted himself out of bed, unsure of who to blame for what few hours he had for sleep.

With precise timing, Alfred entered the master bedchamber, not at all expecting to see the master of the house away from the usual sight of him burrowed under the down comforter. "Master Bruce, I see you're awake."

"I got woken up," Bruce said from his position on the floor, starting on his daily routine of push- ups.

"By whom, sir?" Alfred sounded amused and Bruce knew the butler was liking every bit of this. "Maybe this person can take over my job of waking you up. If you ask me, I don't particularly enjoy doing it."

"You've heard of her before, she's none other than Chloe Greenwell." Bruce didn't seem too keen on mentioning her as he brought his eyes up to the tray of breakfast fare to see what would be the flavor of his Special K cereal for the morning. Alfred had simply given up on taking the pains to prepare a full breakfast when Bruce, upon his return had told him that he had grown accustomed to simpler meals and that Alfred would be wasting his time and effort to be doing otherwise.

"That would be the Greenwell heiress, I believe." Alfred paused in pulling the heavy velvet drapes back, looking over his shoulder at the younger man to see how he would react to the mention of her like any other heiresses that he happened to appear in public with occasionally and wasn't at all fond of.

"Yeah," Bruce's expression was void of anything that showed his distaste whenever the topic of his dates was brought up in the manor. At this point, Bruce finished his exercise and went to consume his energy drink.

"What do you think about her, sir?" Sunlight basked the room in its brilliant light, bringing with it the promise of a beautiful day ahead to those seeking it.

"Why is that relevant, Alfred?" Bruce was standing in an area of sunlight and something about Bruce being illuminated by the natural light made Alfred think that this Greenwell lady might very well be the light that would brighten up the dark recesses of Bruce's soul.

"From the photos taken by the media, I surmised that she is every bit as how she appears to be." If going by the hair color was anything, Alfred supposed that she would not be anything like those ladies in his circle whom Bruce frequently appeared with.

Bruce didn't bother correcting the butler on what exactly was his type of woman because he doesn't even know it himself. "For one, she's smart. Guess what Alfred, she has double PhDs. Not to mention that she has an utter dislike for the society she's in but… she has a thing for alcohol." His opinions on her physical appearance was intentionally left out of the conversation. Alfred would think him as being too shallow.

He didn't want to label her an alcoholic just yet, probably because he understood where her penchant for alcohol was coming from. Alcohol it seemed, had a mellowing effect which he thought was the reason she drank a lot of it. She probably knew it herself too, that without it, she would be pissing off a few too many people and that's not at all what someone with her smarts would do.

Alfred was unperturbed in the least by this information. "By and by, a good personality would suffice. That tendency for alcohol is nothing that can't be dealt with eventually. I'm sure she knows that it isn't a good habit when in the long run."

It was Bruce's turn to look at the older man in total surprise. "You've taken an instant fondness to her even before meeting her in person, haven't you Alfred?"

"It would appear to be so." Here, Alfred paused meaningfully to make sure that his next words would be lodged firmly in Bruce's head for a long time to come. "More than that, Master Wayne, you should know that if you like her, there is nothing holding you back from wanting to get even closer to her."

"Alfred, you make it sound like as if it's anything serious." Even as Bruce said it, he knew he didn't truly believe his own words. He hadn't met her many times enough to confirm what he had been feeling about her but he wasn't that stupid to be able to fool himself by saying that he didn't like the sides of her that he had seen.

Alfred looked infinitely pleased with himself as he delivered these words. "Only time will tell, Master Wayne."

More to himself, Bruce muttered while crossing the room, over to the large window and stood to eat his cereal. "And she agrees with the idea of the Batman." _Why does she have to approve of things the Batman does?_

* * *

Chloe lay sprawled on the bed, her energy spent. For the most part of the morning and the afternoon, she had been busy with getting all the things in her new place sorted out. There was the fridge to stock up, a whole load of books that she'd bought online to unpack, among other little things that she had to do here and there around the house. Her body was grateful for the contact with the mattress beneath, while her body and mind was beginning the slow descent into sleep.

And her BlackBerry chose that inopportune time to ring. With a scowl that was directed more at herself for not having the sense to switch the phone off, she took the call.

There were a few seconds of silence, and then Marc's voice reached her. "Chloe Greenwell?"

"Marc? Do I even want to know how you got my number?" Having one guy know what your address is and another knowing what your phone number is without you ever telling them doesn't do much to make a girl feel safe.

"I know it isn't a right thing to do, but I don't think you would respond to an invitation through Facebook from a guy you barely know."

"So you're saying that for me to know that a guy I barely know had gotten my number from God knows where would make me more willing to accept his invitation to whatever it is that he has planned?"

"Maybe? And the fact that you're still on the other end of the line tells me that so far things are working in my favor." He was right, and that made her wonder if, in fact, she ought to take his act as more of an invasion of sorts. In light of Bruce obtaining her address from some other source that is not her, Marc's possession of her phone number seems more worthy of the reaction that Bruce had been on the receiving end of.

"Well, Marc? What's up,"

"My club's opening tomorrow night, and I'm wondering if you'd come. In case you're worried about who gets an invitation from me personally, you're the only one." She smiled into the phone, more amused than taken in by his words.

"But you're not the only one to invite me to that opening of your place. Your aunt had taken it upon herself to invite me on your behalf sometime back,"

"I told her I'd do the personal invites myself," He muttered down the line. "So would the lady free up tomorrow night for me?"

"Only because you asked nicely — "

" — and you crave my company."

"And the reverse applies just as well, Marc."

"We'll see, Ms. Greenwell," And just like that, the call ended. Followed by a text containing the address she would need for tomorrow night.

* * *

Her Maserati was side- parked between a navy Ferrari SA Aperta and a silver Cadillac CTS coupe. And the former wasn't the only car that caught her eye. Further down the road, she could see a yellow Ferrari 458 Italia. An orange Lexus LF-A. An electric blue Audi R8 V8 Spyder. A silver Mercedes SLS AMG. And a black Ferrari 599 GTO.

Marc registered her arrival with the ending of his call. The first few buttons of his black silk shirt unbuttoned, she could see that he had a gold necklace from which hung a medallion with the image of Virgin Mary. And on his left ear was a gold hoop. He pulled off the black and gold combo well — surely he knew this too.

The man she had met on her first outing as a heiress gave her an expression which was without doubt one that many of his female friends had gotten. It was a look that someone who liked what they saw would have.

Chloe particularly liked her attire tonight, too. The Emilio Pucci dress and brown lace- up, knee- high boots, along with the Louis Vuitton clutch — a stunning combination of monogrammed woolly jacquard fabric, suede and python trim — was an outfit idea that had came instantly to her when she attended the fashion week last year.

"As gorgeous as ever Dr. Chloe." He came over to her, offering his arm.

"You've only met me twice, Dr. Marc." She returned, taking his arm. "Surely a chemist doesn't only perform his experiments twice for a definite conclusion to be reached."

"Well women aren't science, no?" He turned to her, his eyes telling her enough that he hadn't expected any less from her with that compliment.

"When you put it that way," She pretended to consider this for a moment. "Maybe I'll just gracefully accept that?"

He nodded. "As a lady should when she deserves one."

They were nearing the club's entrance when his question caught her off- guard. "If I'm not mistaken, you're part Italian?"

"Huh?" Whatever other people always manages to detect in her that suggested of her Italian parentage from her mother's side was lost on her. "Yeah, why?"

"I'd like to have your opinion on something."

"And having some Italian blood is a prerequisite for my opining?" She looked at him, unsure of whether to be offended or not.

"Sort of,"

"How does Giallo sound to you?" Having glimpsed the name of the club, she knew what he was asking about.

"I like Giallo. But as for anyone else, I think that it might depend on the popularity of The_ Giallo Mondadori_. Maybe you can count on the bookish types?" _Il Giallo Mondadori_ was a series of mystery and crime pulp novels from which the term _giallo_ was derived in referral to its trademark yellow cover background. And that later established the word as the widespread translation of the English "mystery".

However, his reason for that name could be simpler. "Unless you intended for _giallo_ to be the Italian for "yellow".

"Yellow?" Marc looked like how she thought her father would if she had told him that he looked good in pink. "No. It's not even my favorite color."

"So that yellow Ferrari ain't yours." She said, meaning the yellow 458 Italia she had seen parked nearby.

"No," They resumed heading towards the main entrance but stopped at a door in matted black paint with the words: VIP ONLY. Several couples passed them by as they stood outside this other entrance, all of whom gave her the impression that they were here for play, not work. It was a relief to know that his club opening wouldn't be populated with the types who'd see this as a chance for establishing business contacts. They were mostly of the younger set, simply here to revel in the music spun by the DJs and the continuous flow of drinks.

He pushed open the door. "This is Giallo for you."

Beyond the gyrating bodies and the relentless music which is characteristic of all such hangouts, she could see elements of its namesake being manifested in the decor all around the dance floor. Darkness shrouded most of the place, which was only illuminated by red strobe lights on the dance floor and candlelight in most of the other places, needing only liberal amounts of nudity and sex — one of the general characteristics of _Giallo_ films — to bring it all together.

Faced with a future of fewer clubbing nights — courtesy of her obligation to be present whenever Gotham's social scene calls for it — she wasn't planning to hold back from partying all night and sleeping all day. With her father away on an annual trip to oversee his foreign acquisitions, she wouldn't be needed. Unless the vice chairman specifically needed her to approve some massive project with her signature — which she doubted. Yeah right, as if anyone would give her signature a damn. She knew she wouldn't if she were in the other party's shoes.

The leather banquette was populated by five men — any female presence she had expected to be at the men's left and right were conspicuously absent. A lack of which was made up for with drinks. A bottle of Grey Goose, four bottles of wine and glasses of wine in various stage of being drunk took up the table space. Judging from the small group, she supposed that they were Marc's inner circle of friends.

"Guys, the lady of the hour is finally here."

"Como se llama?" She heard the question coming from someone in their midst.

As she was about to answer for herself, a guy with his tattoos all showing through his shirt stood up. When he approached them, she saw that he was obviously big on working out and made no attempt at hiding what he had worked for. The sheer shirt and laced leather pants clung to him in a way that showed off his physique to perfection. He hadn't shown any qualms about not dressing like all the other men and the black eyeliner that ringed his eyes further emphasized this. A single shark tooth dangled from his ear.

"I'm Jared Klein. Co owner of what would be the very now place starting tomorrow." So, Marc wasn't the sole owner. Jared was good- looking, in a Marc Jacobs- Adam Levine kind of way.

"Chloe Greenwell. I wouldn't doubt anyone who has so much confidence." She smiled, a gesture which he returned. Up close, she could see his tattoos. A raven below his armpit, which brought to mind the bird's cackled utterances of "cras, cras."— Latin for "tomorrow"— and Odin's ravens, and a Bengal tiger on his right forearm and bicep area.

Emilio introduced her to his friends, and taking in their names, realized that they were only either Italian or Spanish (with the exception of Jared). She hadn't been really able to get a good glimpse of their faces until they were introduced as the only source of light was a trio of fat red candles in a marble alcove that was at some height above them. From the light cast by the candles, she could see many more such alcoves for every two tables.

"Señorita," One of them, Armando, poured about three inches of Grey Goose into two glasses, and offered her a glass. She took it, the long tall at her lips the same time as it did his. They both drained the glass in one go, earning her a few more rounds (wine, this time) with the other four at the table.

Her last round was with Jared who sat beside her, and only then did she glance to her other side, finding Marc gone. "Any ideas where the guy's gone to?" she asked him.

Jared glanced around, his eyes resting on the bottles of wine on the table. "He's probably gone to get the wine that he's been saving for tonight's congratulatory toast."

She studied the wines on the table and it clued her in somewhat on the wine that Marc have gone to get. There were two bottles of 2005 Le Clos d'Un Jour and two bottles of 2007 Le Clos d'Un Jour. Whatever he was bringing over would definitely be of better stuff than this, that much she knew.

"Marc tells me you're the new kid on the block. How's this city treating you?" He handed her another glass of wine.

Born and bred in Gotham until her last year in high school, she wasn't technically the new kid on the block. All the same, his question was still a valid one. "There's a lot that would need some major getting used to," She admitted, swirling the wine in the glass. "The city's treating me right, but the folks here? Nah, not so much."

"That makes two of us." He toasted her. "I'd be here in the long- run with this biz. Guess we'd better stick together."

"That I agree," They each drank from their glasses. "Where are you from anyways?"

"Sin City." He declared.

"So what made you come out to Gotham?"

"Marc and me wanted to start a business of our own when we got the extra time to spare and we decided that now is a good time as any to venture into business and Gotham's a good place to start. You?"

"I'm originally from here but I escaped this city for a while to study and now I'm back here to help my dad with his business,"

"That sounds familiar," And then it hit him. "Is your dad Derek Greenwell?"

"Yeah, that's him." She nodded just as Marc reappeared with a bottle of 2001 Casanova di Neri Brunello di Montalcino Tenuta Nuova.

* * *

"Not subtle at all, Miss Greenwell." A familiar male voice intervened as Chloe was in the midst of trying to eavesdrop on what seems to be a guy's pathetic attempt at trying to impress a fellow female club- goer.

"Bad pick- up lines always gets attention." She turned around in her seat to look at her newest billionaire friend. "Although I think you know of better ways to gain attention, Bruce."

The man in a pinstriped black shirt and slacks shrugged. "All in the name of having fun, Chloe." And as he sat down on the empty barstool beside her, she caught a glimpse of his U- Boat watch.

She gave his black and steel whopper of a timepiece — that a guy like Jay- Z can carry off on any day — a closer look, "Nice watch,"

"It gets attention, and it makes a statement." Simultaneously, he took in her appearance. Her blue minidress which was edged in tiny, trembling pompons, had a plunging back. And her green locks, with the addition of a few feathers in rich berry colors, was loose around her face. From the looks of it, she managed to distinguish herself from all the usual shimmery sequinned clubbing garb.

However, she was obviously without a male companion. "You came alone?"

"Going solo does it for me in this kind of scene. Keeps things interesting when you don't know how the night would turn out and with whom you'll end up with." It became clear that her sexual relationships were made up of one- time encounters.

"That's a roundabout way of saying that you think a playboy showing up with different dates every time isn't interesting enough?"

"I didn't say that, you just thought I meant that..." She trailed off, another thought occurring to her. "Well, maybe I do, or don't mean to imply that."

"As interesting as it was to wonder just exactly what you planned to let me know, at least I can pretty sure say that I know how a mutual attraction on both our parts will end, if it ever came to be."

She smiled. "I'd expect nothing more from Bruce Wayne. So you can be rest assured that your money will remain safe with you. An advice though — others could be plotting to seduce you for the never- ending smell of money."

"I'll advice you the same. Men can seduce just as well as women."

"At least that's one down for the count. Thanks for the warning." She sipped the Kiwitini in her hand. The combination of fresh kiwis, Belvedere Vodka, sugar and Moet Champagne was by far the best cocktail she'd had in Gotham.

"I could be going for the good guy approach. And I didn't say that you can trust me." He remarked at her readiness to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"For one, when someone pulls the trust- me routine, I don't trust them. Besides, you wouldn't dump all the other women and then have to brave their wrath just for my money. It wouldn't be wise to do all that for someone and something that you aren't sure to get. You're smarter than that." First and foremost, he was a businessman and she knew those business- types to be the ones who wouldn't take chances if they could prevent the slightest uncertainty in whatever they do. Plus, he was a billionaire and her money wouldn't mean much to him — although she believed that no one could ever have too much money and wouldn't want more.

Indeed, Bruce had figured out that she wasn't someone easy to get. "You give me too much credit. Others see me otherwise."

"Not really. You're smart but you sure seem boring." She motioned for the bartender. "A bourbon sour over here please."

"That's yours?" Bruce asked, referring to the drink she just ordered.

"It's high time I thank you — that's for you." She had felt slightly bad for reacting the way she did to his knowledge of her address, and after all he meant well.

"Thanking me in words would be more than enough." He looked rather reluctant about the prospect of having another drink, which she guessed was because he still nursed an untouched tumbler of whisky, served on the rocks.

She rolled her eyes just as the drink she ordered was placed in front of her. "Just have fun and drink some." With every intention for him to at least take a mouthful, she pushed the glass towards him. "Come on. Don't be a bore and waste my money."

Something on her wrist caught his eye. "You've got tattoos?"

Naturally, she glanced down at her wrists, the one tattoo she had that was normally visible. "Yeah, I've got it since forever. Now drink up."

He shook his head, moving his body closer to her and peered at the ink circling her left wrist. The way she saw it, he obviously hadn't seen enough tatted women for the novelty of him spotting an inked female to wear off. "Would you mind me looking?"

While she wasn't quite sure about having her tattoo scrutinized like it was a big deal, she indulged him anyway, shrugging her consent."But you've got to drink this first."

And so she wasn't expecting it at all when he downed the content of the glass in one go. "How do I say this — I'm more fun in other areas, if you get my drift."

"I absolutely get your drift." She assured him and his ego as well. Once again, she waved the bartender over. "A bowl of cherries please." At this request, the man behind the bar gave her a knowing look.

As he took in the snake that begun winding itself somewhere below her wrist and its head resting on her inner wrist, it became increasingly obvious that she had more than just an adder tattoo. In the midst of the length of the snake which was done in dark green and black colors, he saw what was presumably a quote except that he couldn't exactly read the words. It was unintelligible. Recalling the mention of her Italian heritage, he tried to identify a single Italian word. But he couldn't.

Before he could ask her what they words were, she enlightened him. It didn't take much to sense the frustration at his inability to read the words. " He who is fixed to a star does not change his mind. That's Leonardo da Vinci writing in mirror."

"He does?" Bruce straightened up so he could better take in the words as a whole, to reverse them into readability.

"Ah, now I see it." His surprised expression dissolved into that of triumph, but not before she had managed to take in the look on his face with smug satisfaction. "How old were you when you got this?"

"Twenty."

"They're beautiful," He admitted, giving her a another look. This time he was searching for further markings that were... "Remnants of a rebellious phase?"

"My rebelliousness is still very much with me," The cherries she had requested for appeared.

"Still a bad girl," He mused. "That, I'd say would be a very appealing thought to contemplate." Come to think of it, his playboy reputation hadn't gotten him involved with any of those bad- girl types.

"Already Bruce?" Chloe quirked an eyebrow, eyes on the cherries. "I think bad boys are more of my type, anyways let's do this first."

"As in eat those cherries?" Bruce was incredulous. Staring at those fleshy stone fruits, he truly wondered if they could pose any sort of challenge — what with the way the woman beside him spoke of them.

"Huh, that's what I thought," She remarked, deciding that he really didn't know what she had planned to do with them cherries. "We're going to knot the stems with tongues."

"Is that even possible?"

She nodded, patient. "It's an indication of one being skillful with their tongues when in the bedroom."

He only raised his brows disbelief. "It's an inaccurate measure."

"Then it wouldn't hurt to put women's high estimation of your sexual prowess on the line." She took out her phone and gestured to Bruce's watch. "Let's make it a race."

"You left me with no choice," He muttered, albeit the fact that either way he was going to give it a try.

He mirrored her act of eating the cherries and then putting the stem into the mouth, tongue immediately getting into the task of knotting the stem. While he was coaxing his tongue into usefulness to knot the stem, she produced one knotted stem.

"One minute and counting," Consulting the time on her BlackBerry, she complacently informed him and got another cherry stem into her mouth to repeat the process.

"How long did you take anyway?" He asked, the question coming out unclear with his tongue preoccupied by an act that wasn't for speech.

The figures of her phone's timer stared back at her. "Seven seconds."

For having no real reason to put him through what he was now experiencing — other than for the fun of it — whatever hell she had given him was more than enough. She was about to tell him to not sweat it when Bruce showed her his handiwork. "Don't I deserve something in return for being able to pull this off?"

"That, I think would involve lots of drama. And I'm not up for it tonight." She cast a look around for any signs of a catfight breaking out soon — courtesy of Bruce's date — and found none. No one was giving her any jealous looks for hanging out with him.

"Seems like you're wanted," He said, gesturing not far- off. She followed the direction of his gaze and only saw a flash of gold. Which, in her case, she knew was thrown by the chain around Marc's neck.

"Guess I am." She confirmed.

He stood up as she did when she saw Marc coming closer.

Bruce noticed Marc's arm around Chloe's waist when they were within distance for physical contact. "Care for one round with me on the dance floor?" His face was almost touching hers.

"What do you think?" She asked back, pulling away slightly so that she could introduce the men.

"Marc, this is Bruce Wayne,"

"And Bruce, Marco Cianciana,"

"Hey Wayne," Marc's hand came out almost immediately. "Nice meeting you."

"Likewise, Cianciana." They shook hands. She didn't know if guys were prone to infinitesimal animosity but something suggested thay they were like cooled acquaintances separated by misunderstandings of sorts.

"One question before you go. How did you get my number? I'm extremely curious."

She smiled a slow, secret smile. "I don't give my methods away easily. Till next time."

Their arms touched briefly as he leaned in, whispering. "Neither do I,"

* * *

Tonight had been rather quiet for the Batman. By Gotham's standard, three attempted robberies, an assault, and several petty thefts were quotidian crimes. That the night was so served him well, because he who owned that alter- ego was going to stop by the Gotham Tower Apartments. Whether she was going to thank him for the other night was irrelevant, despite her clearly intending it. He figured he was entitled to some sort of thank- you but the Batman didn't do the things he did for gratitude. It was just an excuse for satiating his curiosity — a peek into what she did in her personal space, and time.

Whatever his reasons was, this visit was going to be the Batman's first and the last.

This lavish apartment complex was currently one of the priciest pieces of real estate in Gotham. While being at the edge of the City's finer side should have made the property a slightly less coveted one, the developers had made its location into a glamorous address by lauding it an exclusivity to be living within city limits but removed from the pollution of the city. Where the majority of homeowners would be attracted by the cleanliness of air, he suspected that for her, it was the less light- polluted sky here that made her decide to own the penthouse.

He couldn't have known for sure that he would be able to see her tonight. As it was, his coming over hadn't been a wasted effort. The Batman found her in the middle of the rooftop area, extending both legs upward into a Pilates pose.

Much as he would have wanted his presence announced at his will, she had obviously wanted all intruders to be known. Before he could feel foolish for forgetting about any security installations around her rooftop, her alarm went off like a banshee.

There was no outward reaction from the Batman that implied the sound was deafening to his ears but Chloe who had glanced at the iPad on the stand beside her, yelled at no one in particular. "Shut up." The wailing died down immediately. Judging by her reaction, she probably had surveillance cameras around the place that informed her who the intruder was.

Exhaling, she angled her legs slightly lower and began to roll down through her spine. Dropping her legs to the floor, Chloe stood up. And it was within this time that the Batman took in the place he was at. Candlelight illuminated the area which Chloe had used plants to great effect in an attempt to give the place a sense of privacy. He liked it.

Instead of the Greenwell heiress image everyone had came to associate her with recently, the woman tonight was one clad in a gray V-neck and shorts. Her hair was a mass of unruly green curls pulled into a messy ponytail, while her gold Cartier Love bracelet stood out in stark contrast to the overall picture of her at this very moment.

If it hadn't been for the cameras, she would have honestly been more worried about who was on her rooftop at this time of the night. But the Batman? No, she wasn't worried. Least of all, she should believe that he meant harm. His intervention many nights ago assured her that she wasn't in danger. But was she unafraid of the imposing hulking figure, truly? Whatever his enemies idea of scary was, she knew that it wasn't scaring her. And it wasn't like she can avoid him when he's in front of her, if the caped crusader's mere presence intimidated her. _Stultum est timere quod vitare non potes. _In the words of Publilius Syrus, it is foolish to fear that which you cannot avoid.

She looked at him, pleased. "That's one hell of a screamer but glad it works."

He looked at her, his mask and cowl hiding his surprise. Whatever reaction he was expecting from her, this wasn't it. "I'm sure you wouldn't bother with the introductions, so..." _Okay, that was awkward._ Now that she was standing face- to- face to him when sober, it was a different thing entirely. Having been told by her friends as being an affectionate drunk, she knew he probably got a dose of it too — her recollections of whatever exchanges she had with him was fuzzy. This would mean that he was definitely seeing her as a fangirl, and she'd have to correct his perception of her. "I'm Chloe." She stuck out a hand.

Batman dropped his eyes to the outstretched offering but didn't take it. "Your surname?" The man in black had a painfully rasping voice. He definitely overdid his Batman voice in order to better disguise the voice of the human under that get-up.

"Greenwell." She said shortly, indicating that she'd rather be known only by her first name. "What are you doing here?" As much as she acknowledged that the Batman was the safest of intruders she could have, it was disconcerting all the same to know that her security system would serve her no real purpose in guarding against his intrusion. Let's face it, if the guy could drive around a machine that's a cross between a Lamborghini and a tank with unsanctioned rocket burners, chances are he would know how to get through her security system.

"Girls shouldn't roam the streets of Gotham alone at night."

"And guys shouldn't go running around town as a bat." Had she really meant to sound so disapproving about Batman for being a savior to a city in need and an iconography that would strike fear into the hearts of men? No. The answer was immediate as was her apology that followed. "Sorry."

She glanced at the Batman, looking for anything suggesting that she had just offended him big time. Not that she would be able to tell anything when there was no change whatsoever in his stance or the grim line of his mouth. "Don't think I'll keep running to your rescue. This will be the first and the last time."

"That's pretty obvious. Unless you only keep a lookout for damsels in distress in your line of work."

"I don't."

"Good."

A can of Red Bull sailed through the air. "Catch." The Batman didn't seem to have heard her or maybe pretended to not notice. None of them would be too happy if he didn't catch it. The can would either hit him at the back of his head or fall to the ground — which would mean that she has to clean the spill. "Hey! I say catch."

At that, one gloved hand shot out and caught the can of energy drink. Then he stared at it. "A little something as a show of my gratitude and I want to... uh, thank you for the other night. They help you stay awake longer and boost energy." _Yeah, that'd be super in helping him beat baddies to a pulp._

Apparently, he thought the same too. "I don't need this,"

"Then give it away to someone else." She stifled a yawn, unconcerned with what he thought about it. "Whatever you do with it, consider it as me not owing you anything already."

She was ready to turn in for the night after her nightly routine of Pilates and yoga up here. About to retreat into the comfort of her home downstairs, the Batman reached for her wrist. "Make sure there's no next time."

"I will," He didn't release her from his grip.

"You'll need to do better than that."

"What? Like I, Chloe Greenwell hereby solemnly swear that I'll never touch alcohol and be home by ten?" She rolled her eyes while holding one hand aloft to mimic the actual act of taking an oath.

He didn't answer, and her wrist was still in his hand. She sighed, attempting to go for utter sincerity. "Tell me if this does the trick — I'll try to not get drunk and be out on the streets at the same time."

Their gaze met and it was clear that he was satisfied with what she'd said. He let her go then, but not without getting the last word in. "You should not drink alcohol like it's water."

"It's none of your fucking biz." For someone whose one indulgence is dressing up in Kevlar every night and going round making pancakes out of cop cars, he was one to tell her off. Just because he makes Gotham his responsibility doesn't automatically give him the right to lord over her.

This time she'd worn out her welcome in express terms, and the Batman ought to know how to take a F- word as a hint to leave.

And left he did, taking off into the night as Chloe inspected her wrist for any indication of a bruise appearing anytime soon. "_Futue te ipsum_."

* * *

**A/N:**

**Thank goodness Christopher Nolan gave Bruce Wayne a chance at a life without Batman. The Dark Knight Rises was emotionally satisfying and concluded everything just the way I wanted it. Of course, I love the cast too. And yes, I know Bane broke Bruce's back and all but I feel for the guy. The people's court scene, the quick change in demeanor from Selina to Catwoman in Wayne Manor, BruceXMiranda moments and Bruce/Batman X Selina/Catwoman moments were some of my favorite scenes.**

**Honestly though, if Talia's alive and she's the good guy (impossible) I wouldn't know how to choose between her or Selina. I love them both. I'm thankful and really glad Nolan's decided to add romance to the mix (what's a girl to do but not want some romance in Bruce's life, right?) and not in the form of someone like Rachel.**

**Also, let's not forget Batman's toys (I think I mean the Bat and Batpod only) and the Aventador.**

**I ESPECIALLY LOVE CHRISTIAN BALE AND JOSEPH GORDON LEVITT!**

**P.S. The characters in TDKR will all make an appearance in this fic**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: Batman belongs to those people at DC Comics and Christopher Nolan. But my characters belong to only me and no one else.**

* * *

Chloe skidded to a halt at a crosswalk, jogging in place to keep her heart rate up while she waited for the walk signal. Her canine companion, on the other hand, wanted nothing more than to continue on his morning routine instead of waiting for the walking little green man to tell when they could cross. He nudged the back of her leg repeatedly, prompting her to glance up at the little red man and willing the little green guy to take his place. The red guy stood his ground, and she waited some more. And a little more until there were no cars in sight for a good whole minute, then took off into a run again.

"Waffles," Chloe whispered under her breath. The lure of the toasty smell from the corner of the block seemed to give her feet wings like Hermes, sending her down the sidewalk with a new surge of speed. Her dog, hot at her heels, matched the speed of each of her footfall on the asphalt with one of his own.

After two piping hot waffles with a smell as deep and golden as Indian-summer sunlight topped with dinges and a check- in at the food truck on Foursquare, she promised herself that there would be next time. At this point she slowed down her running, letting the dog take the lead. In the distance, cathedral bells toiled and listening to it, she was momentarily distracted.

The lapse in attention provided her dog with the opportunity to do whatever he pleases, and nearly costing her her dignity. She was jerked forward by the dog's sudden playfulness which resulted in him getting entangled in his own leash from dizzying spins around an elderly man and herself barely prevented from losing her balance with her many years of training as a ballet dancer. "I'm sorry,"

"Are you alright, Miss Greenwell?" Alfred had immediately recognized the heiress with her green hair up in a topknot and green trainers. Indeed who wouldn't, when the press had taken it upon themselves to photograph her at every chance they got. Last, he remembered seeing her in what was definitely a paparazzi shot of her and her father having lunch at a steakhouse.

"Yeah, I'm fine, but..." She looked at the gentlemanly old man, and something about him told her that she had seen him somewhere. As if remembering the incident that landed her in her current situation, she freed her dog from his own doing. While at that, she saw that they were in front of a building clad in dark reflective glass with setbacks beginning near of the base of the building. That architecture was unmistakably that of the Wayne Enterprises headquarters and the connection was made when she took in the Rolls Royce behind him. "You're Bruce's butler or something, right?"

"More accurately, the family's butler for decades," The reply was prompt and proud. "And after his parents' passing, I became his legal guardian."

Chloe nodded, "I see, so you're Alfred Pennyworth?" She'd heard the name along with the mention of Bruce when he was still a kid sometime back.

"Indeed, I am." Her dog came over, sat on the ground and looked up at the man with kindly eyes and equally (if not kindlier) kind smile with those eyes that has a lot of thought going on behind.

"Have you had your breakfast?" Chloe asked him. From the looks of her dog, she knew the animal was hoping for something to eat. Earlier, he had not unexpectedly turned up his nose at the waffles. "If you haven't, you might want to eat without him looking."

"I have," Alfred took in the dog's intelligent, alert expression that gave off a sense of eagerness and interest about him. "Have you any other dogs, Miss Greenwell?"

"My dad has one Italian Greyhound and that's it. You two have any pets in that manor?"

"No. I don't think Master Wayne would have time for them, and maybe he does not want to trouble me."

She nodded but couldn't help giving the butler a long look. "He hasn't been like, burdening you with tough jobs that would be more suited to a younger man?"

He smiled a cryptic smile. "He couldn't force me even if he wanted to,"

"Ah, it's good to know that, especially if your employer is one of the richest man in Gotham,"

For the past two weeks, she'd seen more of Bruce Wayne than she'd bothered to count, and all that billionaire sighting made her very aware of just how good he looked in those suits of his — and most of all, she liked seeing him in them. And this morning wasn't much different. The owner of the corporation that she was now standing in front of exited the building and saw her about the same time she did. His appearance made Chloe realize that this was the first time her attire so sharply contrasted with his three- piece suit, and rather self- consciously wished that she wasn't sweaty from a run.

Bruce couldn't help but notice that she looked pretty tight in her orange, T- back adidas by Stella McCartney top. Her tank top covered her midriff only if she didn't move, otherwise her belly flashed between hems and he caught a flash of a diamond solitaire glittering in her belly button. A body piercing there failed to surprise him at all — not when she had got some tattooing work done. "Morning,"

"Morning to you too." He wore a satisfied expression that she guessed was attributed to having cinched a massive business deal. "Is it only me or do you really get up so early for work every day?"

"Don't they say money never sleeps?" He passed his black leather Louis Vuitton briefcase to Alfred, and tucking his hands in his pockets, watched as Chloe gave her dog free reign to decide on what to do with him.

"I see it as a convenient excuse for you billionaires to use whenever the occasion sees it fit." The Border Collie ambled over to sniff at his shoes, and deciding that Bruce was of no threat to its mistress and itself, sat down and wagged its tail. The dog's apparent liking to him earned it a vigorous fur- ruffling gesture on its head from Chloe.

_More than you'll ever know._ "Will it bite?"

"You and your boys down there got nothing to worry about if that's what you want to know," She cocked her head to the side, grinning in a totally not reassuring way.

"Can I trust that look on your face?" He asked doubtfully.

Squatting by the dog, Chloe glanced up at Bruce. "Bruce, you really need to cozy up to Tickles. Come on." She gestured for him to squat down like she did.

Bruce squatted beside her. "Tickles? You call him that?" She shot him a faux glare at his pathetic attempt to contain his laughter.

She shook her head. "For the love of God, Bruce just laugh it all out. And it's already too late for me to take any offense."

And laugh he did, while trying to justify his amusement. "It's just that I've never heard of a dog named Tickles."

"You have to agree that it's the cutest a dog's name can ever get. Right, Tickles?" The dog replied with a small bark. "Besides, I bet that knowing he's Tickles makes you think that he's less harmless than you initially thought."

"Me and a dog? Never a good combination," God knows he had first- hand experience with this as the Batman. "Not if it's Tickles the Rottweiler," He effected an absurdly serious voice.

Now it was her turn to laugh and she made no attempt to hide it. Bruce glanced at the laughing woman beside him and it occurred to him that he liked the sound of her laughter.

"Heh... Heh... Heh... Heh... " She was laughing so hard that the sight of him and the dog was making it even harder to stop laughing. "You both... Heh... making me... Heh... laugh." Closing her eyes to them, she hugged her stomach which was beginning to ache and almost doubled over. She fell, butt- first however, on the ground.

Bruce who was still squatting, decided that he had really tickled her funny bone, extending an arm to help her back on her two feet. "That's one serious laughing fit if you ask me,"

Gratefully she took his arm and took one, deep calming breath. "I'd never thought that you could make me laugh like that."

Bruce looked smugly pleased. "I'm striving to make myself look less of a boring man to you. I think I've done a good job at it."

"From the way the dog's looking at you, I think you might just shed that whole boring businessman thing right now."

He raised his brows. "So... it looks at me this particular way and voila? I'm no more this boring thirtysomething? How long had he been with you, anyway?"

"I've got him for seven years from when he was still a newborn puppy," She smiled at the fond memory, an expression not lost on him. Chloe loved the dog for his presence in her life as much as for his vocabulary that's at 340 words and counting. With his uncanny language ability, Tickles could learn and remember words as quickly as a toddler.

"Tickles, up." The dog obeyed immediately, standing on his two legs. "Kay, paw out and Bruce, your left hand out. Now Tickles, shake." It was a funny sight to behold- a man dressed for the office shaking hands with a dog.

"I think he really enjoys shaking your hand." She observed. "Tickles, enough," The dog dropped its paw and went back down on all fours.

"That's my first animal handshake,"

"Obvious much," She patted the dog on his head and was currently scratching at a spot behind the dog's left ear. "Do the same to him and see if he reacts the same." The dog was clearly pleased with her attention. "Go on," She urged him.

Bruce took over with the withdrawal of her hand, carefully scratching the particular spot lest he was doing it wrong. Tickles responded to Bruce's touch with its tongue lolled, eyes closed; a definite expression of it loving his attention just as well.

Bruce was unrelenting in his affections for the dog, earning for himself the dog leaping up beside him and panting happily in his face. The closeness resulted in Bruce sharing Tickles scent of dog kibble and fur.

Chloe knew just exactly what would come up next and interrupted her dog in time. "Oh no Tickles, you can't do that. No way can you give him a wet, slobbery lick and expect him to still being confidently charming with his dates," She held on to the dog's collar.

"You're going to restrain it from showing me some love?" Bruce mock- complained.

"Unless you truly think that dog saliva plus dog kibble plus fur would smell like the YSL M7 you're having on now?" She questioned back, daring him to go to his probable lunch date later smelling just exactly like Tickles.

"I'll take your feminine word on how I should smell," He inclined his head, offering a grin that conveyed to her his confidence in being able to wear this sexy masculine scent. "Can I offer you a ride back? To wherever you came from?"

"I can still run a good couple of miles. So, no-" The singing of her favorite Italian group, Il Divo, coming from her BlackBerry alerted her to a call from her father.

She delayed picking up his call. "Bruce, can you extend your offer till I finish this call? That is if you're not in a hurry?" Getting a call from her father at this time in the morning couldn't be the sign of something good. Knowing him, he was probably calling to inform her that she was needed at the office in an hour's time or something like that.

"I'm free for the whole morning, I think. Am I, Alfred?" The butler's reply was positive.

"Thanks." She took the call. "Hey Dad. What's up?" Bruce had retreated to the car to give her some privacy.

"Where are you? I'm stopping by at your place in half an hour."

"Dad!" She exclaimed, loud enough to attract Bruce's and Alfred's attention, including that of some passer- by. "It isn't fair for you to just call and tell me that you're coming over in 30 minutes, expecting me to what — roll out of bed, spray some perfume and appear at the office in my nightgown?" Although technically now she was in her running gear — but still she needed a good bath and a cup of something good to start her day with.

"I received Anthony Zucco's call just this morning that he's coming over to discuss a weaponry deal. You have a problem with that?" Anthony Zucco had a full- baby face, was stocky and square, who appeared somewhat like a the Pillsbury Dough Boy and in her honest opinion, he looked more like a low- level thug than anything else. She sometimes wondered if he dabbled in illegal side businesses.

"It's Fats." From where he stood, Bruce faked a wince on behalf of Fats which didn't go unnoticed by her. "Of course I have a problem with that. Can I sit out of your meeting with Fats?" Tickles stretched out at her feet, head rubbing against her legs.

"He's Anthony Zucco. Not Fats."

"No matter what, he'll forever be Fats to me. It'll be wise for you to let me sit out this meeting. I don't like all this weaponry talk and you know I'll be a liability if I'm there."

"You're excused this one time from the meeting with Anthony."

Fats, she wanted to correct him but her mind ruled. With the good turn that the issue with her father had taken, she knew to not push things. "Thanks dad."

Ending the call, she exhaled in relief. "Phew,"

Pushing himself up from leaning on the side of the car, Bruce uncrossed his arms to open the door for her when she neared. As he did so, he was unable to stop himself from taking his stab at Anthony Zucco, passing her one of those small Evian bottles. "I don't doubt that you're doing him a favor in giving him a better name than his parents."

She looked at him, finding the look on his face coupled with the nonchalance in his voice funny. Thankfully, she was only just unscrewing the bottle of cold mineral water. Because if she wasn't, she was pretty sure that she would be showering him with the water in her mouth. "Well we could tell him that but not before we take away all the knives in the vicinity. He'll be so hopelessly furious."

"But then he's so bad at it," Bruce mock- gasped. Anthony Zucco and his three brothers were all involved in circus acts when they were young. A knife- thrower, a strong man, a lion tamer, and a juggler made up the siblings. In his childhood, he worked in the circus as part of a knife-throwing duo with his father. One night while his father was bound to the giant target and he was the one throwing the knives, he missed, killing his father.

Here, Fats was the object of their joke. They weren't trivializing his father's death or to cause any disrespect to the man who had died from his son's act. Each of them knew the feeling of losing one's parent — Bruce even more so than her.

"We have nothing to fear then! We shall tell him at once!" She exclaimed, under hushed tones, not wanting to attract attention for the fun they're having. They both looked at each other, then burst into laughter.

Their laughter fading away, she was finally able to talk. "That was a good one." Chloe really wanted to know how he got from being a circus act to a businessman dealing in weaponry.

She drained half of the bottle's contents and brought the bottle to her dog's mouth. The dog, understanding the gesture opened his mouth wide for her to pour the water into. Then, along with the dog, they got into the car

In the car, Bruce was aware of Alfred's gaze on the both of them through the rearview mirror. Chloe, on the other hand, was fondling her dog's ears and caught up in the music that was playing in the car, ignorant of the butler's eyes.

"So, you're against doing weaponry business?"

"Unnecessary violence isn't my cup of tea. I'm more of the fair trade- and- green- practices kind of girl." Briefly, her attention shifted to the elder man at the front, and in a quieter voice, asked Bruce something that had been in her head since she met Alfred. "So I've heard that you got no pets in that manor of yours which would mean Alfred's pretty lonely, right?"

"You're trying to say something, right?" His face inched closer to hers, doing his part to not let Alfred hear what they were talking about.

Chloe leaned sideways against the seat, crossed her leg and turned on her full gaze on him. "Does he have a family of his own?"

He mirrored her position. "And I'm assuming that I'll be a worse man for it — no he doesn't have one."

"Pardon my intrusion Master Bruce and Miss Greenwell but I can hear you two clearly. Just don't talk unsavorily about me if you two are planning on it." He said dryly.

"Don't worry Alfred, I won't allow anyone to badmouth my old man."

"As do I. I'll kick their asses if they dare sully your good name." Alfred smiled into the rearview mirror at them. In response, Bruce and Chloe winked at him.

"We're Team Alfred." She banged her knees against Bruce's because she knew Alfred would not be able to see it.

"Team Alfred," Bruce echoed, rather cheeringly.

The remainder of the ride composed mainly of Alfred providing the latest gossip that was currently going around in the Gotham society, while she and Bruce dissected the gossip for the parts that are the truth and what- not.

"We have reached, Miss Greenwell."

Soon the Rolls came to a stop on a driveway paved with quartzite cobblestones and flanked by majestic Phoenix palms. She began to get out but stopped short when her dog seemed rather reluctant to leave the vehicle. In her midst of coaxing the dog to come with her, Bruce exited the vehicle and hurry over to her side of the car. He opened the door, a gesture that earned him her raised brows. Fortunately, the sight of him by the door was somehow enough to make the dog want to leave the car. She shifted her legs to the side, letting her dog out first. Chloe followed soon after, but not before saying her goodbye to Alfred.

"Thanks for the ride Alfred,"

The butler- cum- driver turned around in his seat, giving her a broad smile which made his face crinkle up. "It's no problem, Miss Greenwell. And if Master Wayne has the good sense to keep your company, I'm sure I will be seeing you again."

"All I can say is I'm not dumping billionaires anytime soon," She offered.

Chloe took the plastic bottle from the seat before she left, showing it to Bruce. "You wouldn't mind if I take this bottle for recycling right?"

"I reckon your conscience wouldn't be at rest if you don't. Take it,"

"Thanks Bruce. I really appreciate the ride back." She said, removing the leash from the dog's collar.

"The pleasure's all mine," He smiled, and for the first time she noticed that it wasn't like his oft- photographed smile.

* * *

Glancing at her Omega watch and apparently satisfied that she had made it to the office at the time she wanted to be there — in the hopes that Fats would be long gone — Chloe turned down the ignition of the Anderson Germany 458 Italia Black Carbon Edition on loan from her cousin. It was a thing that had been going on between them since she purchased the Maserati where once in a while they'd swap cars. A deal that was rather unfair on Cyril because she got to try out his different cars while he was always stuck with the same white Maserati. But hey, he was the only one whom she'd trust with the Novitec Tridente- tuned Maserati. Taking care to not spill the coffee she had bought, a Dirty Harry — triple ristretto, steamed soy milk and vanilla — she made her way to her desired floor without any idea of what task her father had decided to put her up to.

So it was with much surprise when she saw that she was to spend the duration of the day with the vice- chairman. She practically dashed across the floor to greet the man who had been thus far too busy for her to meet, until this morning. "I've missed you," Chloe gave the man that she'd seen many, many times when she was younger an one- armed hug. His woolly gray hair was still how she remembered it, always a bit wild for a businessman, and he still had a flamboyant taste in ties. He was wearing an orange paisley affair, with a matching handkerchief in his top pocket.

"You turned out fine, you definitely have." He released her, pulling away to take in the young lady that she had grown into from the willowy teenager with light brown locks who had been like the daughter he and his wife never had.

Seeing the many things that the younger woman was carrying with her, Hugh Johnson stepped back from the doorway to his office, inviting her to put it all down on the couch in there. Chloe dropped her Prada cobalt blue- and- white tote, her Valentino white leather 'Rockstud' bag and her iPad carrying frame, smoothing her high- slit Yves Saint Laurent skirt when she was done.

One could say that Hugh's office has been deliberately designed as the opposite of her father's. Where her father favored pale colors, he used rich deep colors that gave the office a warm, cozy feel. He took his seat behind his antique oak desk, pushing the day's newspaper and a few files to one side. From the newspaper that was turned away from her, she caught a glimpse of a photo of Marc and someone else that she couldn't recognize but was identified as Mario Falcone. "Derek told me you're living on your own, so Renée's been wanting me to ask you if she could see your new place. Is that possible without much trouble?"

She had known Hugh with a familial closeness that extended to his wife, Renée and his four sons. "Tonight's fine," Their conversation briefly delved into the subject of his family, before he steered it back towards work.

"According to Derek, you've done your homework trying to get a sense of this corporation. So tell me what you know and we'll start from there."

"What I know is like," She made a gesture with her forefinger and thumb, distancing them very slightly apart to indicate her knowledge. "0.001 percent — I mean what I know about business in general." And if he really wanted to know, one of her bags held only books pertaining to the subject matter.

"Then tell me what little you know. And also I want you to know that we'd only stop for lunch on two. And you'd have assignments from me to do. Can you handle that?"

"He wouldn't make me the one to inherit this company if you two don't think I can take all that, would you? It's no big deal." He saw something flicker in her eyes at that. _Ah_, he thought, _ambition_. "Look at where I've been at for so long," She said, referring to her years at Harvard.

He took in her attitude with a smile. "You do know us both,"

* * *

"If you are driving a pink Bentley parked behind the back of another car, please move your vehicle," A voice over the loudspeaker momentarily brought all ears to attention.

"Ugh. Who drives a _pink_ Bentley anyway?" Karolina looked up from her literature assignment with supreme disgust, for a response from Chloe in the affirmative.

"Paris Hilton, or a Paris Hilton wannabe?" She offered, flipping China Miéville's_ Embassytown _that she had been reading to yet another page.

Karolina was one of the girls that Chloe had gotten to know during the spare time she spent teaching community education classes at a part of town that had relatively higher crime rates than in most places across Gotham City. Mostly, she helped the teenagers there with homework, besides being someone whom they could talk to about anything and once in a while, she'd meet up with them outside to spend some time together. Among all the kids there, she was closest to Karolina who had over time gotten to know a fair deal about Chloe, and had revealed a lot of her own life story too. Despite the differences concerning their way of dress — she in her Céline patchwork denim trench coat, the sixteen year- old in her usual skulls- and- crossbones tee and Doc Martens — they had a lot in common.

They were sitting inside a 3,000-square-foot spic-and-span cafe outfitted with a bakery, gelato bar, olive bar, deli, cheese counter and a small kitchen for hot breakfast and lunch items. The crowd was shoulder to shoulder on that Saturday lunchtime. Couples buy their toddlers 'babyccinos'— steamed milk in demitasse cups sprinkled with cocoa. Young, gym- honed execs sat alone at their tables eating penne pasta with tomato artichoke sauce and cutting deals into their Bluetooth earpiece. And lithe women dangled their forks over mounds of Chinese chicken salad.

A brunette with red highlights in her long hair had stopped by their table earlier to take their orders, and for the time being Chloe got them a pistachio gelato in brioche and an egg salad sandwich. Judging by the crowd, it'd be a long while before they got food on their table. Maybe that was the reason for the complimentary olive pâté and the accompanying herb and garlic focaccia.

"Did you actually read all of Lord Byron's work?" Karolina asked, a tinge of irritation with the poet coloring her voice.

"I did," Chloe didn't elaborate because she didn't want to scare the girl with the amount of Romantic literature she had read.

She had worked alone on the _When We Two Parted _essay for the past two hours before she saw the depressing amount of words she had written down and got Chloe's help. Not to mention that she was terribly lacking in having literary critics to quote. "So because a married woman dared to dump him, not for her husband, but for another cad and aristocrat who was not him, he wrote this poem in a fit of self- pitying rage. Big deal." Karolina remarked as she crossed her arms when Chloe had done analyzing her way through the poem with her.

"We're talking about a guy who remarked that Lady Frances, one half of a newly wedded couple, 'is very pretty' but that she was already treating her husband with 'conjugal contempt' and predicted she would betray him within three years. Also the guy who confessed that 'I have made love, and it is returned'.

"But?" Karolina knew that, despite all, Chloe was a romantic and that wouldn't be all to what she had to say.

"But of course from the poem itself, the repetition of 'silence and tears' at the beginning and end of the poem denotes the poet's inability to leave his moment of pain behind. He is trapped in a state of grieving a lost love. It is all the more hurtful that he lost her to another man, and all he can offer her is that he will protect her identity by grieving alone."

Eyeing the food rather hungrily, she threw down her pen and stretched. Ignoring how greedy she must look to the other patrons, she simultaneously reached for the brioche and sandwich. "You sound like you've felt the same."

"Haven't been there," Her words fell on deaf ears. Karolina, whose stomach had rumbled in grateful appreciation of the first bite of food she'd tasted since the chocolate- chip cookie she'd had for breakfast, hastily wiped her hand on the white linen napkin. She fidgeted, pushing a blonde lock of hair behind her left ear in a self- conscious gesture.

She kicked Chloe's leg under the table. "Psst. One handsome guy's looking at you."

"Who? You sure he's handsome?" She didn't turn around immediately because that would be way too obvious, counting down to ten before she turned and when she did, saw whomever the girl meant — Bruce Wayne. The man whom she'd admit was precisely her type (none in part due to his net worth and earnings) — tall, dark and _handsome —_ was indeed looking their way. "Oh." The heiress and the billionaire locked gazes.

One of his dark eyebrows darted up into a questioning arch, which she figured was a gesture brought about by the sight of the teenager she had with her. In response, she offered him a half- smile then broke the eye contact, very aware that as it is Karolina already had a whole load of questions at the ready for her.

"Are you planning a threesome?" She glanced slyly at Chloe.

She was supposed to be a role model, but if Karolina knew what a threesome is she might as well play along. "Maybe,"

Either Chloe didn't look like she meant it or the girl was simply unfazed by her mentor's sexual fantasies, if a threesome was really what she was after.

"I know you've been hanging out with Marc, but seriously, Bruce Wayne's a better bet." Whatever knowledge the girl had regarding the man whom she had been going out for drinks with lately came out from Chloe's own mouth. And for better or worse, she left no traces with either guys in the media.

"Here's the problem — you haven't even met Marc and you're already rooting for Bruce?" Chloe rolled her eyes dramatically.

"Well." The other girl feebly tried to defend herself. "He's helped Gotham a great deal with his family's fortune. And he's a pretty lonely guy." Putting her book away, Chloe blinked slowly, like a lizard. Coming from a literature student, the insight she displayed shouldn't be surprising.

More than a billionaire and philanthropist, Bruce Wayne was presumably in the eyes of most women, a playboy. But no one had gotten to look beyond the women — most of whom appeared to have not been chosen for their personality — like she had after her chance encounter with his butler, Alfred who was the only other occupant in Wayne Manor, besides the man himself. That knowledge painted a rather lonely picture of him in her eyes. For all the impossibly large fortune that was his birthright, it changed nothing about the boy who witnessed the murder of his parents. And she recalled that quite recently, he lost his childhood friend who was the former assistant district attorney during the pandemonium that the Joker had unleashed upon Gotham.

"Yes." Chloe smiled, sensing the truth in Karolina's words. "I suppose you're right."

The food and drinks arrived, but apparently Bruce's appearance had given the tenth- grader more pressing matters to deal with. The food could wait. "So, if Bruce asks you out on a date, would you say yes?"

Under her breath, Chloe muttered in Latin, "_Caesar si viveret, ad remum dareris." _She would say yes, if Bruce really did ask her out simply because she didn't see what harm it would do. Certainly, Bruce who was notorious for his dedication to chasing pieces of ass around would not take a single date to be binding on his lifestyle sworn to debauchery. The way she saw it, a date was no more an indication of commitment than a glass of drink from a stranger you met on a night out. "I'll say yes, but don't get me wrong. There's nothing more to it than hanging out with Bruce,"

Karolina wasted no time in pouncing on the way she called Bruce Wayne by his first name. "You've progressed far with him, didn't you? You're even on first- name basis,"

"Kar, I think literature's bad for you. You're reading too much into everything,"

"So you say when you've got the best male of the species for yourself," Karolina complained. "I live my love life vicariously, the least you can do is humor me,"

"Fine," Chloe relented a little bit, "How many more questions for me do you have left?"

"One." Karolina's jumped on the opportunity with her interest practically oozing from her pores. "How did you and Bruce meet?"

"There's nothing to tell," Actually there was, if she wanted to share with her that Bruce had jumped into the Gotham River for her. "We both move in the same circles,"

"I bet it's more interesting than heiress- meets- billionaire- at- a- function," Karolina prompted, her eyes shining.

"No," Chloe shook her head. "That's the truth without the romantic embellishments."

'Yeah, right," The girl wasn't buying whatever Chloe said, and then it was a forgotten topic of conversation. "Hey, look," She gestured with her chin at the distance.

"What?"

"Wayne's not alone." Partly because she was interested in who Bruce was with and partly because the girl wanted her to, Chloe turned around.

Behind her, Karolina was asking if she knew who the brunette was. "A Victoria's Secret Angel." Five seasons ago, she had also seen the Brazilian model on the runway for Givenchy, and who had previously walked for Giorgio Armani, Valentino and Vera Wang.

She was withdrawing her mildly inquisitive gaze from the table when Bruce closing the menu, realized he had eyes on him. And then catching his smile, she smiled back.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: Batman belongs to those people at DC Comics and Christopher Nolan. But my characters belong to only me and no one else.**

* * *

Gotham's array of foreboding buildings, gargoyle and monuments that were rooted in antiquarian concerns with survivals and curiosities was more than just a mark left by the architectural movement led by John Ruskin and Augustus Pugin. The ancestor of the current Wayne heir, Judge Solomon Wayne, in his campaign to reform Gotham had commissioned the architect Cyrus Pinkney to design and to built the structures that stood for Gotham's most illustrious family's hand in having brought the Gothic Revival movement to Gotham.

Chloe closed the book in which Bruce's direct ancestor was spoke of as an eccentric man, and a dedicated judge that had also harbored countless fugitives on the Underground Railroad. Whatever knowledge she had accumulated about the man who, long after he smiled back at death, had instructed in his will for the Gotham Central Library to carry on prompted her to have a check issued to the library. The donation was as much as an appreciative gesture on her part for the extensive collection of books that wouldn't be here if not for Solomon Wayne, as was her way of recognizing the need for library funds. She hadn't expected the library to be on par with all the other good libraries in the country that she'd been to — this was after all Gotham, where there are always other areas in the administration that were extremely low on funds.

She exited the library with the warmness of the morning sun's rays thawing her legs that was exposed by the vintage high- waisted light blue Levi's cut- off shorts she wore. With a small green Proenza Schouler bag slung over her shoulder, she was already too engrossed in one of the few books she borrowed as she descended the stone steps.

Her mind concentrated on what she was reading, and her eyes not on where she was going, it was only a matter of time before she learned her lesson the hard way. The next step she took was replaced with an airy emptiness. It was then too late to do anything to prevent the embarrassing — and painful — aftermath of her carelessness.

Chloe waited for the pain that would come after the sound of the books falling. It never came.

"You okay? Didn't sprain your ankle or anything?" The male voice that she could recognize anywhere brought with it an awareness that he had caught her by the waist, and right now she was staring at his well- defined jaw.

It would have been romantic if they were in this position and the library was the backdrop when the setting sun cast its rosy glow on their surroundings. She tried her ankle. Still good. "Bruce?" Her face lit up in a grin that conveyed gratefulness and relief. _Speak of the Waynes._

A look of genuine concern fastened itself on Bruce's face as he kept his gaze on her. "You're one lucky woman."

Her eyes stayed solidly on his dark brown eyes before she jumped to her feet, narrowly missing from colliding with his nose. "I know," She nodded, releasing a contrite blast of air from her cheeks. "And really, thank you."

His eyes went to the mad- scientist Prada creation: a triple- duty shoe that was an oxford, espadrille, and creeper. "You're not in your heels," This was the most casual he had seen her before when out and about — discounting her exercise attire. The multiple designer bracelets on her wrist, and a bright yellow ToyWatch ensured that.

"They're having a few hours off,"

They got down to picking up the books scattered around them. From their vantage point, the library was even more the magnificent building it was with the gargoyles, the spires, and the stained glass. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

The library aged remarkably well, and gazing at it, Bruce felt extremely proud of his ancestor. "It is."

He was helping her carry the books to her car, despite the protestations that she had put up when he thought they could do with a cup of coffee. That is if she was free. "Care to join me for some coffee?"

"Are you up for something else? Cause I've got a better idea," Her expression was inviting him to forego his caffeine.

"Spoil me,"

The place that Chloe had in mind, certainly wasn't a place that would count the Prince of Gotham among its customers. In the small, crowded breakfast nook, word of his presence spread like wildfire among the patrons while, unfairly, Chloe — who was in her own right just as famous as he was upon her arrival at this city — was able to completely enjoy her food without all that attention. Like its namesake, the all-American breakfast food served are, indeed, big, and line of people outside told him it also had a big, hungry following. He liked the comforting fare here and, maybe he and Chloe could strike a deal. The books that she had borrowed from the library — which were all about getting to know Gotham — gave him a very good idea.

"What do you say to me giving you a personalized tour of this city?"

"Is that a plan to show- off the Wayne family's greatness?"

* * *

Breakfast with her father was a family affair that happened only three times a week. Not that the limit hindered both from having quality time to spend with each other when the time she put in at the company was turning into something of a routine. But breakfast could wait, and she knew it was the same on his part. Chloe was proven right when she found him with their dogs.

Both the greyhound and collie were running rampant in the formal garden that was lined with blush- pink roses in low box hedges. Chelsea, the Italian Greyhound was a dog her father had gotten on the fifth anniversary of his wife's death. "Dad," She called out to the figure that was filling the dogs' bowls with dog food. He needn't bother himself with something as trivial as making sure the dogs was fed their first meal of the day, but he always had.

Derek, in his ancient Brooks Brothers blue button- down oxford, khaki chinos and white Birkenstocks, stood up. "Chloe, a game of chess before breakfast."

Chess? Now? To say the least, this was unexpected. But she wasn't about to pass up the chance. The chessboard was already set up in the outdoor seating area when they got there, along with a pot of tea and two cups. Under the 50- year- old mock- orange trees, she was able to triumphantly announce "Checkmate" when they were about half an hour into the game.

Her father smiled. The occasions that she had beaten him was few and far in- between. Besides, her victory meant that he was a good teacher. "You win,"

A Lamborghini Reventón Roadster pulled up behind her car on the driveway just when she was about to enter the house. It wasn't the sight of it that announced the new presence; rather it was the sound of V-12 engine. She was pretty sure that the driver wasn't Bruce, however, she hadn't expected for Marc to be the one coming out from beneath the scissor doors.

Her gaze went to the car whose ownership ratio was 1: 80000 with only 15 built. So far, she'd seen one in Rome and another in Ralph Lauren's private car collection. "Marc, what are you doing here?"

"Your father invited me over for breakfast," Marc, who was dressed all- white in a white muscle tee, bleached jeans and white leather Dolce and Gabbana sneakers, replied. She had to give the man credit for knowing how to dress in a way that played up his rugged good looks.

His presence here was the visual conformation that her father had more- or- less set his sights on Marc — instead of Bruce Wayne as she had initially thought. The good thing was that she could dump the abundance of no- news- is- good- news belief as her father had not brought up that talk since that time in the car, and she had assumed it was over for good.

Chloe didn't like the control that her father wielded over her by having her caught unaware with Marc's presence, comfortingly though, she could use this opportunity to get a ride in that Lamborghini later.

They entered the dining room to the sight of her father smoothing the cuff of his shirt over his Breitling Blackbird Red Strike. From the dining room doorway, she and her father stared at each other for a long moment, whole monologues going unsaid across their features. This wasn't the time or the place for any confrontation.

The table, big enough to have seated ten people was only set at one end, with places for three people. "Marco, my daughter that I would like you to meet — Chloe,"

"I'd say we've pretty much been having a good time together, Chloe," He wasn't addressing her father anymore when he said that, his eyes meeting hers in a passing moment.

"It couldn't have been better," It was true, she liked the time she spent with him. They shared the same definition of fun, and that was saying a lot about how well they got along. And that just came in handy. Two can play this game, and with Marc, she'd wholeheartedly play the role in which her father had cast her. That her compliance would backfire on her didn't seem like a possibility.

Chloe grabbed a chocolate muffin, and sat back down in her chair. It was breakfast but the only one seemed bothered with food was her. Her father seemed intent on getting to know Marc while she was left to observe him with distaste as she got her fill of the French toast panini with grilled bananas, buttermilk scones, and copious amount of orange juice. All in all, it was probably the most boring breakfast she'd had in this dining room since her return.

"Chloe, maybe you two would like to take a walk outside?" She glanced at the tiny piece of muffin left between her fingers, momentarily considering the excuse that she wasn't done with breakfast.

"Yeah sure,"' Swallowing the last of the muffin, she chased it down with the remaining juice in her glass. Across from her, Marc was clearing up the omelet in his plate then following it with a big gulp of his black coffee.

"That's my childhood swing," Chloe gestured in the direction of the branch of a Norway maple. "I fell asleep on it once and woke up on the ground. When my mom saw that my white dress got grass all over it, she was, to say the least, horrified," Her eyes shifted and another memory passed in them. She remembered nights when she would sit on the swing with her cardboard star wheel chart —that her parents got her for her ninth birthday— on her lap, trying to locate stars when everyone else in the house was asleep.

"My parents were from Sicily. What about your mother?" She took in his perfect profile, the dark curl of hair falling onto his forehead and wondered if their going still affected him the way it did back then. He'd told her as much about the circumstances in which he had lost his parents at the age of six in a car accident but hadn't dwelled much on the emotional part of it.

"Lombardy," That her mother was born there was probably the reason for her love of sparkling wines.

They were at the scented walk now, where the elderberry, sweetbay magnolia, lilacs, clethra, and viburnums perfumed the air just the way her mother once loved it. And Chloe loved it as she always had.

* * *

Marc's XKR 75 came to a stop in front of the City Hall. Promptly, an impeccably dressed man approached the car, only to stop at a distance — all the better to take in the limited version of XKR commemorating Jaguar's 75th anniversary — as Marc helped Chloe out of the car. Tonight, the mayor's office was throwing a police benefit and they were among those invited. With one hand clutching a brass Louis Vuitton clutch, she took the hand Marc offered.

"How does the Jaguar fare from here?" He passed the keys to the valet.

From what she can make out of the nearby cars, a SLS AMG, a Ferrari 430 Scuderia and an Aston Martin Rapide were no match for the coupé in terms of production. "I'd say very well,"

Flashbulbs went off like fireworks at the sight of the matching couple. They were both in black — him in Armani and her in Elie Saab. At one photographer's request, she posed solo for a few shots and then resumed walking hand- in- hand with Marc. Further into the venue, they saw the Commissioner being pulled in for a shot by the DA.

It wasn't that Gordon reviled press; it was just that it made him feel like a fraud. Ever since he had been the one to denounce Batman, he knew he was lying whenever he was in front of those cameras —to the press, to the public that he wanted to protect. Most of all, his children knew what the truth was and he owed it to them to let everyone know that the Batman was innocent.

Gordon wasn't looking for his 15 minutes of fame and was thus no fan of the media aspect of police work, but he accepted it came with the territory. As the Commissioner he'd accepted the thrusting of microphones in his face and the xenon flashes of cameras as a distasteful but necessary duty. Now a better known figure than most in the force, he was used to it.

Jefferson spun the keys of the Jaguar around his finger, his eyes roaming over the Stratus Grey paintwork of the vehicle. In the short while it took for him to get it parked, he could already appreciate the gloriously free-revving and punchy V8 and the modified 'acoustics package' with its much more purposeful and aggressive exhaust sounds. From the driver's seat, the engine noise was also more complex and multi-layered – the intake growl more pronounced and he can just hear the supercharger spinning away.

The two Veyrons he had drove this night didn't even came close to the Bugatti L'Or Blanc Grand Sport that pulled into his line of sight. He had to work to keep his jaw from falling at the one- off Veyron and remember this was the car that he had to get behind the wheel of. Contrary to its name that meant "white gold", this roadster had several parts made of porcelain, namely the oil cap, wheel centre caps, fuel filler cap and the rear badge created in partnership with Bugatti and Berlin china house, Königliche Porzellan-Manufaktur. Its exterior body had blue- and- white stripes painstakingly painted under thick lacquer to be perfectly smooth.

In what was undoubtedly the night's grand entrance, Bruce Wayne and his date stepped out. With a grin that was as much for his adoring public as it was for the model on his arm, the billionaire cut a strikingly handsome figure in his Tom Ford suit.

By eight o'clock that evening, most of the guests had arrived. In addition to the event which was heaving with the who's- who of Gotham, members of the Gotham City police were in attendance with their partners. Chloe wasn't surprised to discover that the deep economic divide between the wealthy and the cops of Gotham resulted in a very obvious segregation between the crowd. As for her, Marc had left her side a while ago and she was going to go greet her dad — whose Maybach she had seen outside the City Hall on their way in.

Chloe was pretty sure that the majority of the aimless, idle rich present weren't the slightest bit interested in police funding, or any charitable purposes for that matter. Rather, she suspected they were simply here because they needed to feel worthy and virtuous. And what better way to do it than offering them a chance to socialize in that wasteful of theirs by throwing a damned party and along with it an opportunity for a tax write-off. All that done in the name of benefiting the GCPD.

It was impossible to not notice the crowd around her, and one would have to be extremely occupied to not do so. She saw a group of middle- aged wives air- kissing with their strangely swollen lips. On the rust velvet causeuse at the far end of the room, two rather plump women with diamonds flashing on every appendage were in an apparently deep conversation that was punctuated with loud ringing laughter. Not too far away, posturing and pouting by the floral arrangement at the middle of the room, a group of heiresses in Hervé Léger dresses and Tribtoos — a match made in hell, if you ask her — with their St- Tropez tanned legs and caramel highlights were in discussion about the Fat Whisperer and DNA cells have ears? And emotions? And can be persuaded to go somewhere else? Get a brain. And as for the fat cells, get 'em sucked out.

Bruce knew he was staring at Chloe but it worked for the playboy persona that he didn't care if he was caught staring at someone else's date. Chloe was an ethereal beauty in a floor- length sheer black dress that showed some leg beneath the beaded petal applique of the skirt. Her hair was done in an Audrey Hepburn- inspired French twist that allowed him to see her long neck, like her wrists, were unadorned and she only wore a pair of yellow gold and sapphire stud earrings.

He looked on as she captured a glass of champagne from a roving server, and in the time it took for her to take a sip, her eyes had already swept the crowd. Then, seeming to notice him in the periphery of her vision, she turned and her bold red lip curved into a smile in his direction.

A liveried waiter carrying a silver tray crowded with fizzing glasses of champagne passed him by and he took a glass. He held it up to her from across the room, smiling as he did so and she responded likewise.

Her father smiled approvingly at her choice of dress when she found him later in the midst of a business discussion about his company's latest foray into property development. His eyes paused on the earrings she had on, obviously realizing that it was the same Van Cleef & Arpels one that he gave her mother for her 43rd birthday. Her father was outfitted in a bespoke suit — like he always did. On his wrist, he wore a Brequet watch —one that was particularly her favorite, and his most well- worn.

He then introduced her to his group of friends, who as it turned out were all politicians. She made her handshake brisk and prefunctory with a solid smile in place, although underneath she felt that the whole thing was a bit uncomfortably politically charged. Her chance to politely excuse herself came, but before she could act on it the Mayor appeared with his beautiful and somewhat icy wife whose fashion sense leaves very much to be desired. The silver lamé georgette backless floor- length Victoria Beckham dress would have looked good on her if it wasn't for the Piaget watch she had on which was all set with baguette-cut diamonds. Where she could have pulled off chic à la Posh Spice, the Mayor's wife was now reduced to simply looking gaudy.

"Chloe, meet the Mayor," She came face- to- face with the man whom she had always held as the single entity responsible for the corrupted state of this city. Really, she wasn't looking forward to meeting the man. The Joker would have done the city a favor if he had killed off Garcia too, though she was also aware that his demise would only allow someone else just as corrupted to take over- and what's the point then?

"It's nice to finally be able to meet you, Mayor," She said with a cheerful, empty smile.

Chloe doubted Mayor Garcia's smile that was as bland as buttered toast had anything to do with the smile she gave him. "I've been hearing a lot about you lately, Miss Greenwell." He was clutching a crystal glass filled with what looked like cognac, and she suspected that this was not his first drink of the evening.

Before the conversation could degenerate any further into even more fake expressions and poorly-restrained animosity — Chloe saw it as a very real possibility —Bruce Wayne and Erika approached them.

"Chloe!" Erika's demeanor brightened when she saw her. "Bruce told me that you came and I thought I'd track you down!"

Casting a meaningful glance at the Mayor, she spoke to Erika in undertones. "I don't like that guy. And I'm glad that you and Bruce came to say hi,"

She doesn't seem surprised. "Bruce doesn't like him too,"

For the first time since she saw Chloe again, Erika noticed that the dress she was wearing and her own beaded floor- length coral dress were from the same designer. "We're both wearing Elie Saab," Delight sparkled in her eyes and Chloe couldn't help but grin at her.

"Chloe, a new friend?" Without needing an answer from his daughter, Derek proceeded to introduce himself. "I'm Chloe's father, Derek. And you are?"

"Erika Lundgaard, Bruce Wayne's friend,"

Her reply appeared to satisfy him and he stepped forward to where Bruce stood. "Chloe, meet Bruce Wayne. I assume you know his reputation?" It looked to him like her father was woefully uninformed of his daughter's sexual lifestyle. Bruce did his best to conquer his grin.

"Oh, we've met,"

"We've crossed paths once or twice," Bruce added as he and Chloe shared a look that didn't escape Erika's notice.

"I would be very interested in learning the occasion in which both of you came into acquaintance." Two spots of color bloomed on Chloe's cheeks. He paused and in the few seconds Chloe knew she wasn't going to like what her father was about to utter. "Chloe, why don't you tell us all about it?"

"She's spunky," Bruce interjected, and despite the favor he'd done in sparing her from her dad's patronizing inquiry, she labeled him a glare — less to do with the connotations of the word and more to do with the fact that he humored her dad.

Chloe had agreed to taking a few shots with Erika on the latter's iPhone and Bruce had finally been persuaded by his model friend to pose along with them. Where Chloe — who, in the past had her moments on the runway — and Erika posed like true professionals, Bruce also posed just as well as a model or actor might on the pages of GQ. As they were snapping away for photos that Erika would later post on her Twitter page, Chloe saw Bradley Thompson III heading towards them in the iPhone's front- facing camera. "Brad III's on his way," She groaned.

"Had a bad experience with him?"

"He's a sexist pig who think he's a big deal because he drives a MP4-12C," She had encountered him in his orange MP4- 12C tailgating her Porsche. If he thought that she would be intimidated and move out of his way, he was terribly mistaken. When he finally got the hint that she wasn't going anywhere, he called for a race. If that rich kid thought that he could beat her because she was female, her cousin's red Wimmer- tuned 911 GT2 RS taught him a thing or two about getting a faster car. Her Maserati would only make the win slightly less sweet.

With Erika and Bruce listening, the trio were huddled in a half- circle like they were trying to come up with a game plan to handle him.

"Hey guys. What's doing?"

"Business things," Bruce said dismissively, giving off the impression that he couldn't care much about the son of the media mogul. Bradley Thompson III's relationship with drugs had made it to the society pages as frequently as his birthday bashes.

"I'm just looking for Chloe by the way," He turned to her. "Dance with me."

What little she knew about the guy in front of her was that he had just started his term at Gotham University. In his double- breasted Gucci suit, he looked too young — and like he tried too hard — in his choice of clothing that would have looked great on either Bruce or Marc.

His hand closed around her wrist and tugged, in what he thought was an inviting gesture. And she hadn't even gave any indication that she was interested in an offer made by a boy who thought he was at the age where he had all the charm it took to play the field with all the other older guys. Those his age weren't her type at all.

His tightening fingers were reminiscent of blood pressure cuffs. She readied a remark to get him away from her for good when Marc reappeared with two flutes of champagne. He saw what was going on and intervened.

Marc reached for her other hand and planted his lips on it. "Can I have this dance, _la mia bella signora_?"

Neither she nor Marc glanced at Bradley III who let go of her wrist as he tucked her fingers into the crook of his elbow and escorted her toward the center of the room. However, she paused by Brad III to deliver her parting line in Latin, "_Brevior saltare cum deformibus viris est vita._"

The dresses of the women all around them brushed up against one another as people made space for the dancing couple.

Gordon tugged at his too-tight collar. Damn this image he had to maintain, so much so that he regretted having bought himself this Brooks Brothers suit specially for tonight's event. He had moved up in the world but that changed not a thing about how he felt wholly out of his element to be standing here all night sipping champagne and nibbling canapés. Defiantly he worked the tie loose, pretending not to notice he'd attracted the attention of a bald man with a drooping mustache.

"Commissioner?" The Commissioner's wife was conspicuously absent. She doubted that if he had came with his wife he'd want to opt out the dancing and instead looked like this was the last place he wanted to be at.

His hand paused in the midst of working his necktie completely loose, leaving the long piece of navy blue cloth hanging loosely around his neck. Stepping further into the margins of the room and out from where he had stood to make himself scarce, he saw who it was that had called him.

In Gordon's own estimation, he didn't consider himself to be someone who would be sought out by heiresses on the rare occasion when he was out on a social event such as this one. He vaguely recognized the young woman as the latest addition to Gotham's high society thanks to his eldest daughter who had pointed out her distinctive hair color from a picture in the Gazette's society column and had the next day returned home with a head of green hair shot through with neon green highlights.

"If you're looking for the mayor..." He trailed off at the shake of her head and the dislike that crossed her features at the mention of Garcia.

"Actually, I want to talk about the money that's being raised for the Gotham PD," She explained.

Not another one having second thoughts about donating a very small part of their trust fund to the police force but wouldn't even blink about buying a ridiculously expensive pair of heels, Gordon mentally groaned. His quota of having such types to deal with had been reached, and he wasn't going to put himself through the experience again.

"There are people in the Mayor's office that I'm certain can help you with any further inquiries on what exactly is done with your donation."

"No, that's not what I mean," She clarified. "I like the cause I'm giving to have a face. I like to be personally connected. I just want to be that special unique snowflake, Commissioner."

He wouldn't have thought that he could ever have a real conversation with an heiress. Despite her obvious lack of understanding of how both business and government worked, he quickly came to realize that she had a very clear idea of what she wanted for the department, thus for Gotham City. She voiced enough of her desire for the Narrows to be a safer place that Gordon didn't have the heart to tell she was thinking like an idealist and that it wasn't something that can be achieved by occasionally dumping money on the department.

Gordon told her what the money raised tonight would be funding, what was needed and what they're currently working on. The fact that that tonight's event had so far provided the department with a sizable amount of money for obtaining newer technologies made her realize that the city's police department were seriously lacking in the sine qua non for police work. No wonder, the city needed Batman as much as they did before Harvey Dent's death marred the vigilante's reputation. Chloe wasn't in Gotham during the whole period of chaos that was unleashed upon the city twice, but she had a friend to keep her abreast of the happenings.

When he told her to call him Jim instead of starting another sentence with "Commissioner", she immediately switched to calling him that and "Will you dance with me?"

The closest she'd come into contact with the law enforcers in Gotham was when she was pulled aside for speeding in her father's Porsche Panamera S Hybrid, and now she was already asking the Commissioner for a dance just after meeting him?

"I'm a fifty- something and is the only one around here who wears spectacles, why would you possibly want to dance with me when —"

"...there's so many good- looking, eligible bachelors out there for my taking?" She finished for him with a dulcet smile.

"You were the one who was given the chance by the Batman to get your hands on that vehicle of his to destroy the elevated tracks and he was your go- to guy. That's cool." She implicitly told him that she was on team Batman. "And you've still got the good looks at your age," She added, rather impishly.

Unbeknownst to her, Chloe's words weighed him down with even more guilt. In following through with his promise to the Batman, he had denounced him, chased him, outlawed him, and raised public outcry against him. The man he had came to regard as a comrade saw that it was necessary that Gordon declare him a fugitive but that didn't make what he did any less distasteful. Not to mention that it was absolutely anathema to his solid sense of what was right and fair. However, destroying the bat signal had hurt him most.

His mind elsewhere, she translated his silence as reluctance. "Come on, Jim. It's just a dance,"

Gordon, she discovered, was a good dancer. There was no woodenness to his movements that suggested he had danced a lot when he was younger. Well, she wouldn't know for sure but it would have been romantic if he and his wife had fallen in love during their first dance. They were moving faster now, across the floor, without any thought to the Mayor and his wife, whom they nearly cut when they turned.

"Do all your police officers — you included — survive on crappy coffee?" There was no other way to phrase her question without coming off as some rich snob who drinks only coffee made from freshly- ground coffee beans and that anything less was below him.

Gordon shrugged, "That's what we run on,"

"That will end soon," She assured him. "I think the coffee machines would be ready for use at your department by noon tomorrow."

"I appreciate that but I don't think it's necessary," She'd admit that it was a very impulsive thing to do. Besides, she wasn't sure they deserved it and was aware that her contribution might only result in the cops consuming too much caffeine in a day. At the same time, as with all that monetary contribution can buy, no one was certain that their money would help the police force in their fight against crime or result in one desired outcome. Although she acknowledged that her way of doing it was the one that lacked certainty the most. Maybe — just maybe —having a good cup of joe to start their day with would make them enjoy doing their work more. Nah, she just wanted the police have something good when they're taking a break from their job, to stay awake to file reports and what- not, and when waiting for Batman on the rooftop.

"Commissioner, I hope you wouldn't mind me wanting to dance with her." The query came from behind Gordon, so unexpected as to stop Chloe in her tracks. Gordon swung back from her like a door opening, revealing Bruce Wayne. He bowed, his gaze on Chloe as he spoke to Gordon. "Mind if I cut in?"

All Chloe did was raise one elegant eyebrow at Bruce.

Bruce took her offered hand as Gordon faded away into the crowd. "You look beautiful tonight."

At the compliment, a small smile played on Chloe's lips and she tilted her head in acknowledgement. "Don't you look suave?"

The smile that grew on Bruce's face was almost obscene as he let his cockiness seep into his words. "Don't I always?"

She was smiling again. "I suppose you do," Her eyes ranged about him and then fell on his timepiece. "Nice watch, again." Sexy was more like it. The watch with green SuperLuminova and black rubber strap was a Hublot Oceanographic 4000. A diver's watch, it was resistant to the pressure exerted at the record depth of 4,000 meters. The case back was made of grade 2 titanium. Her Rolex Submariner with it's 300 meters had nothing against his. From what she knew about the watch, his black carbon fibre version was limited to 500 pieces as opposed to the other titanium version with 1000 pieces.

Chloe wondered if diving was his thing, but she figured it was all about bragging rights for him. Still... "Is diving your thing?"

"I did cliff diving a few times for the attention." Bruce flashed his trademark grin. "The girls at Princeton were my motivation and they're a... persuasive bunch." Fiction is the better part of valor.

"Really? What about extreme sports?" She was into extreme sports, and if he was too, looks like they had more in common with each other.

"BASE jumping and spelunking, things like that," He said vaguely.

"What was it that you told Bradley III before you left?" Bruce slipped his hand around her waist, drawing her near. "Sounds like Latin to me."

"It is." She glanced around the floor as he led her across it in a waltz. Not that she was worried that the guy who was the subject of their conversation would hear it. After all he ought to know that it was an offensive remark. "Life is too short to dance with ugly men."

"You're rather blunt, or should I say that you're not worried about the consequences?"

"My dad would tell me that I should be selective in who I offend. Are you?"

"Hmm," He said thoughtfully, and it was his tone that brought her gaze up to his face.

"What?"

"You know Latin?"

"Yeah," She went on to tell him that she started learning the language when she was 11, and the excitement she felt for the first time she translated a sentence. Initially, she started out wanting to read Virgil in Latin to stand out from her friends, but then it was the fact that Goethe was better in German, Flaubert was better in French and Virgil was better in Latin that really stoked the fires of love for Latin. It was one of the languages she took in high school and later when studying at Harvard, she sat in on classes that also taught her Greek.

The music changed more than once, both in style and instruments, songs ending and beginning anew as they danced.

"A tattoo in your ear? I wouldn't have guessed," His breath tickled her ear and she enjoyed the sensation while it lasted. "Does it hurt?"

She lifted her hand from his shoulder to lightly brush across the tattoo nestled in the top part of her ear. It was the number 13 in Roman numerals that she had got it done in Berlin because "I don't believe in superstitions. And it hurt like hell,"

His eyes remembered something and a smile pulled on his mouth. "If you don't mind me asking, who's the little girl that I saw you with two occasions ago?"

Of course she knew who he was talking about, the conversation she had with Karolina about Bruce made sure of that. "She's one of those kids who are part of the community education classes that I'm teaching down in the Narrows."

"The Narrows? Isn't that where the worst things happen in Gotham ?" A slight frown curled the edge of his mouth.

"Yeah. But I'm most usually there during the day,"

"That doesn't make it any less dangerous." The fact that it was bright out, in Bruce's opinion, didn't make it any more safe. She might be able to look badass by dressing up in a way that gave an impression of it but he doubted that she could make herself blend in with her surroundings during the day and hide the fact that she was a single female in a nasty neighborhood.

He had a point, and it was a point that she had considered before when she was starting to think that venturing there being dressed in all black — jeans, a GAP hoodie and high- tops — with a blade hidden on her being, brass knuckles, and her martial art skills just couldn't do. She had appearances to do as a heiress at social events and let's face it, she had to live her life.

Chloe found herself silenced by this logic, and in the silence that followed, Bruce broke it first.

"Does your father know you're doing this?" She made a faint, noncommittal noise that he knew meant 'no'.

When she looked at him again, her jade eyes were paler and cooler than it had been before. "He doesn't need to know, and that's that."

His grip on her fingers became more certain as the music changed again. Bruce fixed her with a devilish smile, the worry on his face scudding away like a cloud across his forehead.

A tango beat slid over the floor. "Tango your thing?"

"What do you think?" As she questioned him back, he pulled her closer, close enough to give her a lungful of Chanel's _Allure Homme Edition Blanche_.

Chloe's skirt whipped out in a twirl and wrapped around her legs as Bruce brought her back in again, a firm certain hand on her waist keeping her from toppling with the momentum.

"I'm not taking this slow." He snapped the statement out as quickly as he spun her into another turn, keeping his eyes on her. Chloe felt that she couldn't afford the luxury of a witty remark or a raised eyebrow, concentrating instead of keeping the movements of her feet in tune with the music. The only reason that he seemed by far the superior dancer was because the last time she did this dance was during her high school prom. The absolute certainty of his lead allowed her to keep up with him.

She attempted to talk, her words coming out breathlessly. "I don't want you to." Some of her hair came loose from its updo, wisps of green around her face.

Bruce pulled her closer again, lowering her in a slow dip. The fluidity of his motions came off as something that was attractive to her. Involuntarily, Chloe's mind flashed back to that moment on the library steps.

For a moment the music slowed, leaving breath for speech before stepping up in tempo and volume. Then the music ended, abrupt and shocking. Her weight leaned into Bruce's, bodies pressed together erotically, and their noses so close that her eyes fluttered close, briefly expecting for the kiss that the pose demanded. "Shit." Chloe muttered, and unfortunately Bruce heard her.

Then applause broke out around them and she pulled her gaze from Bruce to discover a circle had opened up, giving them space to dance, and the room's attention was entirely on them.

She shifted her weight to her own feet, helped by Bruce. "What?" And when she was standing on her own two feet, he said, "I think we make a good dancing pair." They both laughed at that, but she thought she heard a faint tightness to his voice.

Her mind scrabbled for a plausible excuse. "I think I've been dancing too much and got a blister on my last toe for it,"

"Can you walk? Or do you need me to carry you?"

She hastened to assure him that she can manage fairly well on her own, and "Just so you know, your dancing skills still left much to be desired,"

"Does it really?" He threw out the question offhandedly but hadn't expected himself to really want to know the answer to that. As he looked at her, he tried to figure her out, and in her reciprocal gaze he saw that her green orbs had darkened. On his part, a shot of desire ran through his system.

The night culminated in Bruce Wayne very publicly presenting a check of ten million dollars to Mayor Garcia and the Gotham City Police Department, much to the delight of the press. He also announced that WayneTech would do its part in outfitting the police force with the necessary technologies. It was a well thought out move, Chloe would give him that much. Where he threw scads of money at a cause — whether he believed in it or not — the rest of Gotham's wealthy will follow. But as she wrote off a check of ten thousand, she doubted that amount donated by him can be topped, either they couldn't afford it or preferred to keep it for their own spending. They could afford hiring bodyguards that whatever happened to Gotham's police was none of their concern.

Bruce wanted to do much more than just effect some immediate quick fix-its. While it would have set an example, it would have also given the people of Gotham something to believe in — that money could solve everything — besides Batman, who had betrayed them. They would have something to look forward to, instead of looking back at their murdered hero Harvey Dent. Or maybe it was simply for a more personal reason.

"Tell me if she's not worth your while." He knew who Erika was talking about without having to seek her out with his eyes. "She's a catch."

At Erika's very accurate assessment of Chloe, he realized that it had run parallel with that of his own. He had gotten more than he bargained for in that dance, and came out of it realizing that if he reached out just enough, there was the possibility of something real for Bruce Wayne. "To be honest, I don't think she goes both ways."

Chloe held on to the suit jacket belonging to Marc that he had draped over her. She hadn't realized she was feeling cold until they exited the building and was now standing outside watching a stream of cars — mostly Mercedes and BMW with one or two Maybachs — continuously pulling up and taking tonight's guests away with them. The younger set, on the other hand, were mostly picked up in rides ranging from Aston Martin to Porsche. At some point, the cars she saw weren't of any interest to her anymore, until a Bugatti L'Or Blanc Grand Sport passed her by. It was the only Bugatti Grand Sport of that design in existence.

She let out a low appreciative whistle that garnered her a few clueless and irritated glances. They really didn't know what they were missing.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: Batman belongs to those people at DC Comics, and Christopher Nolan. But my characters belong to only me and no one else.**

* * *

"Alfred? Do I own any jeans?"

Bruce looked up towards the penthouse apartment Chloe lived in. He hadn't planned on dropping by her place and it was only this morning when he had woken up and posed the question to Alfred that made the older man do a double- take. In the space of time in which Bruce had taken his breakfast and had his shower, Alfred had managed to put together an outfit that was decidedly casual. It was a far- cry from his top- of- the- line tailored pieces from the likes of Ermenegildo Zegna, Burberry, Etro and Prada but he found he liked it.

Needless to say, he was impressed. "I don't remember having jeans and is that... sneakers?"

The butler chuckled. "You just never wear jeans, and the sneakers had been in your wardrobe for a year, Master Bruce."

"Mr. Wayne?" A voice spoke from a few yards away. If the doorman was wondering the reason for the billionaire's presence outside the apartment building, he didn't show it and instead put in place a mildly questioning voice that was more professional than curious.

"I'm here to see Chloe Greenwell," The doorman held one of the lobby's glass doors open for him and Bruce went inside. A few residents stopped and stared. By the looks of it, people know when they have Bruce Wayne living in their midst or when they don't.

"The concierge will show you up to Ms. Greenwell' s unit." Bruce was well past him when a woman in a cocoa- colored silk Michael Kors jumpsuit, with her one-year-old Bichon Frisé that was dyed hot pink like a certain D-List celebrity, fluttered her eyelashes obviously and flipped back her blonde hair with very clear intent. He cringed at the sight of the unnaturally- colored pooch. No wonder the folks at PETA claimed that dyeing an animal's fur causes the animal stress and can lead to complications or allergic reactions that endanger the animal's health.

A perky nippled woman in her red Juicy Couture tracksuit stared over at him, breathing in strenuously as she bounced past, hoping he'd notice her.

The concierge was a middle- aged man. "Good morning, Mr. Wayne," Bruce responded with a small smile. Patiently, Bruce waited while he called Chloe up to announce his presence. "Please take the last elevator on your left."

An almost unnoticeable lurch warned him he'd reached the penthouse level just before the bell rang. Bruce stepped out in a hallway and crossed the distance to her door. As he stood there waiting for her to open the door as there was no way to let her know he was outside, he took in the surveillance camera that was looking down on him and an electronic keypad beside the door that had a biometric finger scanner. It was a nifty piece of technology with touch screen and whatever more it could do was visible to him — but he wouldn't be surprised to discover that it could do more.

"What, exactly are you doing here?" Chloe leaned against the door frame with her arms crossed and the sole of one Ugg against the wood surface behind her. Boldly, the sideways glance she gave him became appreciative. He sure look good in everything.

She hadn't seen him attired as casually as he did now in a sage green button down, black jeans and grey sneakers. Bruce, as the papers had so often captured in their photos, was a man who to the rest of the world, had in his closet rows and rows of the same pants, shirts, boxers, and socks. While it pleased her eyes to note that he was equally... sexy — Chloe was secretly forced to concede — as he did in his suits, it also pleased her inner fashionista immensely to know that there was more personality to his wardrobe than just Armani, Gucci and Tom Ford. He wore a Tag Heuer Grand Carrera watch — one the fifteen things a man should have, according to Tom Ford, was a beautiful day watch with a metal band.

"I did say that I'm going to give you a tour of Gotham. I'm here for that." He had thought of the circumstances in which he would be welcomed into her house for arriving so suddenly a) Her throwing the door open clad in only her bathrobe with her wet hair dripping water onto the marble floor b) Her fumbling to open the door when she's still recovering from a bad hangover, and threw up a whole cocktail of spirits all over his shoes c) Her strapping on her heels in the doorway as he reached her door and told him that she had other things to do.

He was wrong on all counts. Instead he was greeted by the sight of Chloe who had a black facial mask slathered on and eyeing him like he was a piece of meat. She was wearing a white tee that said NO MORE FISH IN THE SEA? on the front in block lettering and brown corduroy shorts. Her hair that was pulled back into a high ponytail revealed to him that she had more ear piercings that he assumed she had from the pair of earrings that usually dangled from her ears during the social events she attended — her right ear was pierced all over and it were those done on the cartilage that despite knowing he had high pain tolerance made him shudder at the thought of getting them.

She recognized his grey mid-top sneaker in paneled suede with contrast white leather trim from Maison Martin Margiela's Fall/ Winter 2010 menswear show. "Is this your first time wearing it since you bought it a year ago?" His footwear made her self- conscious. Just as she'll never be caught stepping out in a tracksuit, the same goes for Ugg boots that she'll only ever wear at home. Her consolation however, was that she wasn't in their boots but in their deep periwinkle suede moccasin slippers.

"Yes, but how'd you know that?" He was leaning against the opposite side of the door frame, a position that put them within each other's personal space.

"I watch hot guys walk down the runway twice a year," At his uncomprehending look, she added, "Men's fashion week," She had wondered whether he shopped for his own clothes or if he had a personal shopper. At least she knew now who was responsible for his looks — not that she was complaining. Okay, maybe a teeny bit.

"So are you planning to keep me out here? You got a day- old, 12- inch Domino's under your couch that you're trying to hide?"

"Ewww. That's disgusting," She made a face, giving off the impression that having even a speck of dust in her house was unacceptable and winced at the resulting pull of the tightening facial mask.

They leaned facing each other until she pushed herself away from the door frame and it occurred to Chloe that she hadn't let any man into her house other than her dad. Chloe studied him for a moment before raising one thick eyebrow. "I didn't thought you were being serious about it."

He shrugged, as if there was nothing he could do about standing at her door on a Saturday morning unannounced. "Any chance I could charm you out of your house for the whole afternoon?"

"Only if you've got lots of time to spare."

"Actually I do. Got a dinner tonight but that's at seven. " At this pronouncement he gave a triumphant smile, knowing that she now had one excuse less to turn him away.

Not knowing if having him around in her house was a good or bad idea, she sighed. "Come on in. And a piece of warning? Don't break anything cause it'll cost you a considerable chunk of your fortune."

Everything in her place glowed in whites and creams, as far as the walls, the Italian marble flooring and the white stone fireplace were concerned. The morning sun that flooded the place added to the effect, making the place a bastion of light. A glass shelf on the wall opposite the floor- to- ceiling windows displayed a collection of twelve Atmos clocks. He was standing on a brown- and- white cowhide rug that was placed in front of a solid wood coffee table and spread out on the surface were a few coffee table books ranging from Alexander McQueen: Savage Beauty to one on Renaissance painters, a bowl of hyacinths and a Diptyque candle. Bruce knew he wasn't expecting her place to be one where everything was either a pricey reproduction or an antique bought at Christie's but he hadn't experienced style that was more about personal taste. Most of the mansions that he'd been to looked like it aspired to be the Sun King's palace rather than aiming for the sense of warmth and homeliness that Chloe had managed to evoke in the decor.

Two paintings that looked like it could only be something bought from Christie's or Sotheby's hung on the wall. It wasn't so much as his knowledge of paintings that told him so but it was that the artwork — done in a gilded style depicting a couple embracing — looked expensive. It must had been plain on his face that he didn't know what he was looking at. "You make me feel like my place is an art gallery. That's Gustav Klimt's _The Kiss_ and that," She gestured to another painting on the wall, "is one of Andy Warhol's _Colored Campbell's Soup Cans_."

"It looks irreplaceable." Bruce took a step back, much to Chloe's amused expression. "I don't think my billions could get them back for you,"

"But it would make the loss more bearable, and I could soothe the pain of the gaping hole in my heart by buying other artworks," She played along, tossing off the loss of her favorite artworks in a light voice.

Across the room, a telescope that befits someone with her qualifications and was not of any standard models that he had seen before, faced the windows. "Are you more of a science or an art person?"

Bruce was looking over her shoulder at a photograph of a night sky above an observatory when she answered him. "I can't choose. I love both."

The photograph was beautiful, and he could see why the interest in astronomy. "Did you take this?"

"Yeah," With her photography skills that suck, this was the one time it actually looked good. "I had to drink strong coffee while taking long exposures of this night sky above Helmos Observatory in northern Peloponnesus."

"Greece, Paris, Milan? Any place you haven't been to?"

The countries that she hadn't been to came instantaneously. For as long as she could remember, she had countries she wanted to go to but hadn't found the right time for. "Prague, Russia, Antartica." The last one was lowest on her travel bucket list because the continent that was already under assault from carbon overload didn't need the ecological threat of North Face- wearing, camera- heavy humans. "What about you? Traveled the world already?"

Honesty was out of the question. Technically, he did travel all over the world and saw everything. The cathedrals and castles and churches and hovels and slums. The richest and the poorest people. But he didn't stop to bask in the experience of being at someplace different. All he did care about was learning many battle techniques and studying many philosophies. "I wouldn't call that traveling." In a louder voice, he said. "No. Monte Carlo, Aspen and St. Tropez isn't actually the world," Time to put in some 'Brucie' Wayne moments.

"Any plans of seeing the world then?" And then the part of her that had grown up helping her mom with the task of entertaining guests at their family home asserted itself. Her mom would be rolling in her grave if she knew that Chloe hadn't attended to a guest in her home in a similarly hospitable manner. "Care for some tea? Coffee?"

"Coffee, please." She preceded him into the kitchen. Unlike the previous, this space was all walnut and Italian statuary marble. The stainless steel appliances added that element of cool as much as it facilitated showing off how highly equipped it was. A vase of enormous pink peonies on the kitchen island softened the lines of the kitchen somewhat and at the same time added color to the marble and steel.

"I think Alfred would be disappointed,"

At the middle of the island was a wooden bowl filled with apples. Bruce sat himself on one of the Tolix stools. "He's force- fed me with enough Darjeeling and Earl Grey to last me a lifetime. He would understand."

Recognizing the joke, Chloe only shook her head mirthlessly and added a loud ha for effect. "What's with coffee anyways? Not that I'm on Team Tea indefinitely,"

"What can I say, I'm a shallow American who recognize overpriced chain coffee." He looked with certain interest as she spooned ground artisan coffee beans into her espresso machine. "You don't look like you're on Team Tea,"

"It's the by- product of spending too much time with my dad." He's one of the biggest tea fans I know," She supplied, clicking the coffee into position, curled her fingers around the silver handle, and slowly drew it down.

"You've done a nice job with this place."

His lack of culinary skills didn't stand in the way of him recognizing a kitchen that could easily rival professional kitchens — and yes, also what they had at the manor. He picked up some names in the kitchen: Gaggenau, Wolf, Rancilio, Scholtès and Bosch.

Alfred would love this, and he didn't doubt for a second that all this wasn't just for show. This woman sure knows her way around a kitchen. For reasons unknown to him, Bruce found that the thought drew him more to her. And if he was willing to admit, there was something elementally sexy about a woman who was a culinary witch.

"Thanks," She grinned at him before going back to watching the thick, treacly black liquid stream into a cup as she listened to the machine's gentle hissing with satisfaction.

Releasing the handle, she reached for the pitcher of milk and immersed the steam wand in the milky depths.

Bruce stared at the Native American art on his cappuccino. "Isn't this what you get at the coffee shops, but much better? I'm impressed."

"I'm currently practicing a phoenix design." Chloe informed him with a superior degree of smugness. "Wish me luck and you might get to see it,"

They had a line of teacups dividing the space between them on the island. Each of the cups held freshly- poured aged raw Pu'er tea from the 1950's from the teapot that was unfurling a thin stream of white smoke at the head of the cups. From what she'd told him, the tea along with the cinnabar clay tea set were a housewarming gift from her father.

Earlier, she had given him a withering look when his initial reaction was "The 1950's? Maybe it's time to throw it out."

With a mildly irritated huff, she told him that it costed twenty thousand dollars a pound. "You can say that they're the scotch of teas. Basically its a drinkable antique."

Sheepishness crept over his face at that but he made sure that she knew his reaction was suitably justified. "It's half of a century old. That's a reasonable reaction to be had."

"I guess it is." What he wrongly thought as her having only a general knowledge of teas turned out to be more. In addition to giving him a brief lesson on the clay used for the teaware, Bruce watched as she brewed the tea gongfu-style, her actions easy enough to be ritual.

Chloe ducked her head over the teacups, fingers touching the cups for any at a drinkable temperature. "Step two is quiet your mind and relax,"

A droll note infused his response as his eyes closed. "But you don't believe in things like Tasseography," Behind closed lids, he was back at a village in India still working on his meditation techniques and breathing control.

"Whoa, big word," She cracked open an eye. "Wanting to do this for fun is good reason. If you're looking for a reason for yourself, I'll give you one: You need a break from whatever fantasies that goes on in your head."

It was his turn to crack one eye open, and he saw she was looking at him with one eye. "And while I do that you're going to sit there and feast your eyes on me?" Bruce smirked. "Not that I mind you being constantly reminded of how handsome I am."

One green eye gleamed mischievously while an identical smirk pulled at her mouth. "Hardly. And let me point out that I know resisting my beauty is hard work."

The meditative peace came easily to him but he kept his eyes closed. From the silence on her part, he was pretty sure that he was ahead of her. "Found inner peace yet?"

Damn. He opened his eyes. "Step three is sipping the tea — "

" — and try to avoid consuming too much leaves. If you're right- handed, lift the cup with your left and vice vers — "

"Ambidextrous?"

"Reach for your cup with one hand, stop, and the use the other hand." Here, she paused pointedly and sensing no interruptions from him continued, "If your mind stubbornly wants to think of something, focus on that thought."

They reached for a teacup each. "Bottoms up!" Bruce exclaimed. He took a sip of his tea. It felt like drinking soft silk, with a mellow but vivid living quality and long sweet finish.

"This is awfully good tea," He squinted at the reddish- brown liquid and the patch of tea leaves at the bottom, then looked up at Chloe.

Her pure laugh rang around the kitchen. "Told you so. Give it three good swirls to disperse the leaves around the interior of the cup, then gently dump the liquid here." She pushed across a saucer to him. "And you can start reading,"

Bruce stared into his cup intently, a line appearing between his eyebrows. "I see a swallow, a chain, a dagger, a dice, a sheep and a mushroom. What do you see?"

Chloe didn't seem able to read her leaves clearly. "A snake, a mouse, a car, a long- eared hare, a flower and... an hourglass? Yeah, I think that's what it is."

"I think I left something out too,"

"That is?" He placed another empty cup of tea down.

"You have to mentally divide the cup into three sections. The rim area is above the tea level when the tea was first poured. The base is the level of tea left before dumping out the remainder. And the middle section. Saw any bubbles, twigs or droplets?" She reached for a fresh cup of tea. "The first symbol you saw represents your dominant character or someone near or influential. Symbols in the rim section apply to this moment in time. The middle section's the near future, usually no longer than a fortnight. Both the rim and middle represent the influences in your outcome. The base of the cup is the ultimate answer to whatever it is you want answered."

Chloe returned a while later with her custom- colored iPad that she placed between them. She held the tablet out to Bruce who saw that the browser was opened to a page she'd found on decoding Tasseography symbols. "You first,"

He took the device, turning it to the back. The body was painted a yellow color, the Apple logo a glossy vanilla and the antenna equally glossy in carbon- black. "I thought green was your favorite color, no?"

"Never go to excess, but let moderation be your guide." Chloe said, as if she was quoting someone. "Cicero."

"And I should live by that too?"

"Absconding with the entire Russian ballet is a tad excessive, don — " At a familiar persistent, pulsating beat of "Hey Baby" coming from the dining room, she fled the kitchen for her ringing phone.

Bruce strained to hear the conversation she was having with whoever it was who called. After picking up the call, Chloe had moved from the dining room to lying on the couch in the living room thus affording him a better idea of who the caller was.

"All your cards on the table so soon, Marc?"

"You know what they say about oysters and sympathetic magic."

"Come by at eight. Bye." Chloe ended the call and reappeared in the kitchen with her white BlackBerry Torch peeking out from the pocket of her shorts.

"Got yourself a date?" He hadn't meant for the question to come out as it did, soured by an unidentifiable emotion.

"I think it's a matter of avoiding them all," Chloe answered jokingly, clearly not picking up on what was unsaid.

A trio of large candles — it didn't escape his notice that she had scented candles everywhere, with flowers coming a close second — and a vase of white roses was arranged in the middle of the dining table. A low stack of books and an opened book occupied one end of the vintage black granite table. By the looks of this place, Chloe was big on neatness and this table was only reasonably cluttered. Aside from the books, an iPod was in a speaker dock and there was some stationery lying around. She had apparently been doing some studying. His interest piqued, he turned his attention towards the books — starting with the textbook that was opened to a highlighted page.

After wandering about her dining room, Bruce settled on studying the Damien Hirst _For The Love of God_ sculpture. It was a platinum cast of a human skull encrusted with 8,601 flawless diamonds. And sitting on its forehead was a pear-shaped pink diamond which, in his estimation, totaled the diamonds at 1,106.18 carats. The teeth looked real.

He was eyeballing one empty pavé-laid diamond eye socket when Chloe's newly- attired figure came out from her room with her fingers holding a pair of heels by the straps. As she crossed the threshold of the dining room, he had a moment to observe her. Usually, it was just his detective's instinct at work but with her, it was that he simply liked looking at her. The Erdem silk-chiffon maxi skirt printed with a bouquet of ecru, pale-yellow and green flowers and the Nina Ricci sleeveless top with a Lanvin rose necklace gave her a very feminine look.

"The color looks great on you," Bruce said in such an offhand manner that Chloe was doubly complimented.

She acknowledged the compliment with a smile as she dropped her platform sandals by the couch. "Found the answer you seek when you came in through my door?"

"I think I just found the one whom I seek," He assured her, earning himself an eye roll that indicated she got his meaning. "You're studying for an MBA?"

"Unless what you've so obviously seen is your eyes playing tricks on you." Her slightly irritated tone told him enough that his poking around wasn't welcome.

Truth to be told, she hadn't expected him to give the MBA books a second glance. If a trashy bodice- ripper or — she'd give him that much — a TIME magazine got his attention she could understand the interest, but the business books? No. Maybe she didn't really think that highly of him but even then she knew that below all that was a savvy businessman. She doubted that the Wayne empire would still be in the family if he was a brainless butthead. Crossing the room, she checked her pile of books for any signs of him messing her things up and found her books replaced the way she had arranged them.

"I don't exactly look like I know much about business do I?" The self- deprecating tone made him want to tell her something, anything at all but he held his tongue. Besides, it didn't look like it would be appreciated. "And it's a rhetorical question."

Bruce decided that they needed an hour of travelling time, so they were now riding the elevator down to the lobby. There was one more floor to go when Chloe put on her vintage Carrera. "No shades?"

"In the car," His fingers hooked in his jeans, he eyed her. "I don't think you're afraid of my personal paparazzi. Are you?"

She looked affronted. "No."

Outside the building, Chloe glanced at the Audi, Porsche before she brought her gaze back to the black BMW M6 coupé. It blended reasonably well with the other cars along the street and didn't stood out from its more sportier German counterparts. Unlocking it, he helped her into the car. "Is this one of your less showy cars? Because I've always had a thing for the M6."

"It's my only 'less showy' car."

He got into the car and she waited until they blended into the afternoon traffic. "Personally, I prefer the Lumma version." The CLR 600 sits lower, is broader and has a more aggressive look — all the more attractive due to its modified features and attachments. Plus, the engine of Bruce's BMW was also pretty unimpressive when compared with the Lumma modified one that draws a top speed of 186 mph out of the 5 liter, 40-valve V-10 engine.

"Not saying that to be on my bad side are you?" Bruce glanced at her.

"You don't exactly look offendable," Chloe remarked. "And that's a bad thing." She added without missing a beat.

"You've just put yourself in danger of being kicked out of my car."

If he thought that would work, she merely looked unconcerned. "Whatever you say. But you know how it'll look like to outsiders. Imagine this on the Gazette's front page: Bruce Wayne dumps Greenwell heiress on the street, made her walk all two miles back home in her Christian Louboutins." She lifted the hem of her skirt just enough to show him her nude suede heels with the signature red sole. "It's six inches high with a one- and- half inch platform. It'll fucking hurt." Chloe injected a dismayed tone for realism. In truth she could easily walk a few miles in heels before her feet would hurt real bad. Running? Well, she tried a mile in heels on a cobbled sidewalk once — maybe she could do some more.

"Do you use that line on every man who wanted to get you of his car?" Bruce put on his Tom Ford aviators.

"Gay guys don't feel such inclination to be a gentleman." She quipped, and Bruce chuckled.

The car was devoid of any musical sounds that always kept her company whenever she drove. Bruce, reading her mind, reached out and turned on the radio, filling the space around them with Nicki Minaj's brand of rap. "Can I switch to something else?"

"Do anything you want,"

She tuned in to a station that was playing Lady Gaga's _I Like It Rough_. Bruce shook his head, clearly having not heard of the song before. "And I'm a hard girl, loving me is like chewing on pearls?"

The lyrics sounded absurd coming from Bruce. "You looked like you hadn't heard of her before,"

The likelihood of him not having heard Lady Gaga was considered by Chloe who was murmuring more to herself than the man at her side. Bruce didn't fail to notice that she was talking to herself. No sooner had he thought of pointing out how she looked like to anyone who caught her talking to herself, she whirled on him. "You really hadn't heard of her before? Lady Gaga doesn't ring any bells?"

"No," Bruce frowned. "I don't think I want to listen to this Lady Gaga sing."

"No you're not going to," The music in the car changed to Mariah Carey's _Through The Rain_. "You know this?"

Bruce shook his head. To that, Chloe responded by repeating her actions, introducing yet more unheard of tunes to his ears. They came across tracks from One Republic, Pitbull, Josh Groban, Muse, Jay- Z, Bruno Mars, Justin Bieber and Taylor Swift, to name a few. All to which he responded with the same shake head of his head. She might had as well thrown her hands up in surrender when she left Coldplay singing _Yello_w in the background.

"Bee Gees? Michael Jackson? Spice Girls?" Bruce ventured uncertainly.

"It's one thing to be clueless about music if it doesn't interest you. But what do you love doing in your spare time? Any hobbies? What's more to you than playboy, billionaire and philanthropist?" She returned her gaze to him, lips pursed with hopeful curiosity.

"What about me?" Bruce asked, hoping that his voice was as casual and friendly as ever. Inside, apprehension and tension blossomed suddenly within his chest.

"You know fairly a lot about me and you also happen to be one of the few guys that I actually allow into my place. As it is that's really unfair."

Of course she had a point there. Honesty was out of the question...or was it? Most of his free time that wasn't spent cultivating the public facade was taken up by the Batman. Alternatively, he could conjure up vacations at exotic locations, plane, yacht and island purchases, and parties with European royal families but he found he didn't want to. "It's all business and work, I don't have much leisure time." That much was true.

"Why am I not surprised?" She seemed to take his word for it. "Seriously though there's more to life than getting yourself swamped with work or growing the Wayne empire. Bruce, you need to learn to have something fun to do besides working your ass off. Maybe swimming in fountains is your brand of fun and I'm not judging but I think the novelty of it would wear off after a few times."

"Chloe, are you advising me?"

"I'm not exactly the right kind of person to dole out advice to people," A wry smile crept to her face. "That's just my take on life."

Their lunch destination, as it turned out was a small American bistro on a quiet block just off a busy street. She had used the first restaurant they went together as a scale with which she got some idea on the kind of place Bruce had in mind. This place with the name scrawled across the window- very charming looking place- and ample street parking wasn't one of them.

"I didn't thought you have a favorite haunt," Chloe commented as they went through the door. Their table was ready upon arrival and they were seated in at a window-side alcove table. She loved those types of tables.

"Not a favorite haunt of mine, I just thought you might like this place." They flipped open the menu with its detailed but not overly florid menu descriptions. The waiter came soon after with sparkling water and jotted down their orders.

In the small open kitchen, she can see the owner and his team at work although she didn't get a good view as those who sat on a stool at the counter facing the kitchen. The plainly decorated dining room had the chef's well-worn food volumes and cookbooks unpretentiously doubling as elements of the décor. Buttery warm colored walls had non-commercial, original art on display. There was a sensible mix of comfortable wall-mounted banquette seating and basic wood tables and chairs.

Their waiter brought out the platter of house- made charcuterie. According to Bruce, everything on the plate was made in- house with the exception of the prosciutto. While it was not entirely unexpected that Bruce knew stuffs about the food, he surprised her when he also added that often they will buy the whole animal from a local farmer and completely use every single part of it. She now knew why she spotted braised pig tongue for the first time ever on the menu — seeing pork tongue up for grabs, she was super sold. Chloe loved weird animal bits. Foie gras once convinced her of divinity in this world. Sweetbreads make her want to sing, bone marrow make her want to dance. She always, always go for the lengua from the sketchy taco trucks.

"You're right. I like this place." She said between a bite of the slab of mortadella embellished with pistachios and a mouthful of sparkling water.

"See? The perks of being friends with a billionaire, and you can really take my word for it." Bruce shamelessly remarked.

Bruce noticed that when she ate, her eyes would close briefly to wholly savour the tastes in the food. It was something he'd only seen food programme hosts do and not what his female dining companions usually did. Bruce was looking at her eat, an act that had gone relatively unnoticed by Chloe. Not until she caught herself when she saw that she cleared her plate faster than he did.

"You like your food more than the one who's paying for it, don't you?"

"You like to look at others eat and make it awkward for them, don't you?" Chloe didn't look up from her plate.

"Touché."

The meal leaped from pleasure to pleasure, from the house-made charcuterie plate, to a shaved asparagus salad with tangy champagne vinaigrette and to what they now had. Bruce had opted for the double- wide noodles that came with braised wild boar shoulder and shaved Brussels sprouts in braising juices, and Chloe had gone for the pork tongue that was served with cream of wheat and shaved fennel.

"Pig tongue anyone?" She waggled the meat speared to her fork in front of Bruce.

He mock- frowned at her, shaking his head. "Are you going to make me eat rooster balls next?"

Chloe smiled with an unkind pleasure at him not daring to eat the tongue through the prongs of the fork. "Maybe not if you eat this tongue,"

He didn't know what made him reach forward, pulled her hand close and took a large bite of the piece of pork.

Satisfaction flooded her when she realized what he had done. "It was good, right?"

His mouth worked, searching for words. "It still tastes and feels like tongue."

"But now you can say "Hey, I ate tongue." Of course someone who ate rooster balls would be cooler than you." Chloe looked over to his plate of hearty pasta. "Can I try some?"

He pushed his plate a little nearer to her. "You can try more than some." Chloe cleaned her fork of the leftover tongue and reached for a strand of the noodles. With her fork, she swirled the noodle in the gravy and brought it to her mouth.

The moment she had the noodles in her mouth, a female voice called out to them. "Bruce. Chloe. What a coincidence." Chloe's best friend's inability to not greet her boss when she bumped into him outside of Wayne Towers resulted in Chloe choking on the pasta, and very inelegantly at that.

Bruce only hesitated for a second when he looked between both women before he hastily passed her his glass of drink. "You okay?"

She nodded mutely as she unseeingly wrapped her fingers around his glass while her other hand was over her nose and mouth as she coughed uncontrollably. It took her few seconds before she got it all under control. You can choke when you're eating rice or when you're drinking but pasta? Seriously? No one chokes on pasta for goodness sake.

"Can't you just feign ignorance, Cam?" The question was delivered through Chloe's teeth, an aside that Camilla wasn't meant to answer. She jerked her gaze away from the tablecloth. A cafe latte- skinned couple stood at their table, smiling down at them. The man, Clifford Carter was co- founder and managing partner at one of Gotham's top law firms. His wife, Camilla Haynes was the CFO of Wayne Enterprises.

"Camilla," He said heartily, standing up to greet his CFO who was looking every bit that was expected of a high- ranking Wayne Enterprises employee in a black Stella McCartney dress with velvet sweetheart panel and a peplum waist paired with Jimmy Choos.

"Bruce," It was clear from Camilla's irritatingly pleased expression that she found it good for Chloe to be out with Gotham's most eligible bachelor. Whatever this indicated she knew that it gave the other woman a wrong idea that there was something romantic at work between she and Bruce. "Chloe didn't tell me anything about you."

Chloe smiled at Clifford who seemed to recognize what she was feeling inside. "Oh yes, let me introduce my husband. Bruce, this is Clifford. And Clifford, Bruce." The two shook hands.

"Chloe didn't tell me that you knew each other either," The triumphant look Bruce threw her told her that her oh- so- resourceful- sounding voice at that night in the club was not oh- so- resourceful- sounding anymore. Any hopes she'd harbored that Bruce had forgotten about her getting his number from an unknown source was dashed. "Best friends?" As he suggested this, Chloe saw that he seemed to already know.

"My maid- of- honor at my wedding to Clifford," Camilla took her husband's hand.

"Maybe you two have coupley things to do?" For the first time since Camilla came over to their table, Chloe acknowledged the other woman, smiling sweetly as she did so. She knew without a doubt that Camilla knew what she was getting at.

"Yes, we're actually going to watch the Paris Ballet Opera's _Giselle_," She admitted, and then whispered in Chloe's ear but still loud enough for Bruce to hear. "I want to know everything that's been going on."

"Just so you know we're currently at the booty text stage," Chloe replied, not bothering to keep her response from the men's ears.

"We'll leave you two lovebirds alone. See you Bruce," Camilla smiled.

They stared at each other from across the table, and finally Chloe passed him back his glass just so that she could divert his gaze elsewhere. "I didn't know she was married."

Chloe gasped but realized soon after that she shouldn't be surprised. This was Bruce Wayne they were talking about. "Does she look like she's not married?" And then it dawned. "You didn't make too many passes at her, did you?"

"Well... let's see..." At the look she gave him, he protested. "She should've told me that she's married." And then the side of him that was too appreciative of women surfaced. "By the way she's hot."

"I'll make sure to pass that on." Chloe promised but he didn't miss the gleam in her eye that betrayed the seriousness in her voice.

The waiter approached their table with the dessert. Either Bruce or Chloe could have chosen the crème brûlée but they both agreed that the nitro ice cream or nitro sorbet was far more appealing. They considered ordering both the eggy desert and the ice cream that gave the message that this was no culinary backwater but the waiter told them they'd get three big scoops of whatever they order, enough for the entire table. And it was immediately settled.

He was right. The strawberry sorbet made with farmers market strawberries and the cinnamon ice cream made with a vanilla base and the mint chip ice cream redolent of real mint with a cut of dark chocolate gave them more than enough to share.

After lunch, Bruce said he had something planned for them. Beyond that, he hadn't elaborated and Chloe decided that whatever surprise he had in store for her, she would like it. Forty- five minutes later, Bruce's driving around took them to a largely industrial neighborhood in Lyntown whose streets were lined with factories and warehouses. Some, Chloe could see, had been converted into lofts and galleries, but as for the rest that were abandoned, it looked like they were drug refineries and stolen car shops.

Bruce picked up on her thoughts accurately when he assured her. "I know how this place looks like but it also has Gotham's best- kept secret."

"I don't think anywhere that has your patronage could be the best- kept secret,"

"It could, actually. If they only want my sole patronage." Chloe simply snorted because she didn't know what else to say. In a bad business sense, he had a point.

Bruce led her into a warehouse that had been converted into a private art gallery. Chloe felt a familiar tinge of wonder as her eyes made a futile attempt to absorb the entire floor of artworks. No matter how many galleries she had been to or having spectacular works of art hanging in her living room, there had always been something about being in the company of art that always brought out a side that a visit to the Musee du Louvre at the age of five had started in her.

She remembered the three most famous objects out of the 65,300 pieces of art: the Mona Lisa, Venus de Milo and Winged Victory — with the latter two being her favorite. Of course her mother was as much of an influence as her first art museum experience had been — also courtesy of her mother. Giselle encouraged her daughter to try her hand at anything that was artistic, resulting in her enrolling her daughter for ballet lessons at the age of four, and in violin classes the following year amongst art classes that were half- formed memories in her head.

They were greeted by the husband- and- wife duo; Neville and Tara Fletcher who owned the gallery. Bruce seemed to know the two pretty well, introducing her to them as he did the other way around too. "She's a big lover of art, and looks like she's already taken by your gallery. Neville and Tara, she's Chloe Greenwell. And Chloe, Neville and Tara Fletcher."

The woman was dressed casually in a white shirt and skinny jeans with black Louboutin studded ballet shoes, as did the man in a black Uniqlo T- shirt and jeans. A huge long pendant with pink opal and peach moonstone set in rose gold hung from the woman's neck. "Bruce was right. I think I wouldn't leave here empty- handed." She shook hands with the wife and the husband.

They smiled, and Tara said, "You might find a piece you like. We'll leave you two to have a look around. Enjoy our art collection."

The first space was a high-ceilinged room, furnished with matted black sheepskins on the walls and black stalagmites sprouting from the floor. Aside from the sheepskin, most of what took up space in here were made of rubber. "Is that what I think it is?" Bruce asked.

Her gaze went past the school of monochrome black and white pillars that used foam, plaster, rubber, sheepskin and tar to create an exhibition of fragmented, vertical pieces to a couple with dome-shaped tops that made it hard not to think of a penis. "Yes it is."

Bruce tilted his head, trying to make sense of the very phallic totem-like structure. "This is art today?"

He didn't see the works as evocative and psycho-sexual. "Anything goes these days." If Damien Hirst's_ Two Fucking and Two Watching_ that featured a rotting cow and bull was anything to go by.

"I get art when its not covered in tar and paint and made of these," He gestured around at the stacked round slabs that might well have been rock-hopper discs commercial fishermen use to keep their nets from snagging on the sea bottom. Catching the way with which Chloe took up the twenty sculptures that were meant to show the distress of found objects, he softened his remark that might piss off art lovers. "Maybe in a different sense than you do,"

They progressed to artworks that were more easily perceived as art for someone like Bruce. She did a double take at the artworks that looked like they were Giuseppe Arcimboldo masterpieces. Upon closer inspection she realized that it wasn't his. Arcimboldo's imaginative portraits were also made entirely from fruits, vegetables and flowers but The Vegetable Gardener were made up of more vegetables and also represented a bowl of vegetables if turned upside down.

"Whoever took these photos was pretty amazing." Bruce observed.

"I thought these were paintings..." Chloe looked again at the portrait, really looked at it this time and saw that Bruce was right. He had some good observational skills, Chloe thought. The photos actually reminded her a little of the fabulous vegetable art of Ju Duoqi, and Carl Warner's foodscapes.

The first of the recreated Arcimboldo portraits of Vertumnus, the Roman god of fruit trees and plants was Bruce's favorite. Her favorite, the portrait of the lady in flowers that was a re- imagining of Arcimboldo's Ninfa Flora had the same intricacy as his favorite did.

They came across more photographs. A trilogy of self- portraits in black lace underwear. A photographic portrait series that examined Bosnian genocide victims; rabbits infected with a lethal disease; the first woman to hijack an aircraft; and India's living dead, among other subjects. An ink drawing of cavolo nero. A set of mixed media artwork of bowls and plate. There were also a smattering of ceramics made in the former West Germany during the height of the Cold War in styles that ranged from cool Bauhaus modern to post-hippie funky.

Among all the artworks, however, one Gerald Davis inferno- like painting stood out. Against a black background, sinuous semi- solid human figures in tortured poses stood out in fiery hues. She was not a believer in the concept of heaven and hell but that didn't take away the beauty of the artist's rendering of hell.

"You love this piece?" Bruce asked, standing in front of the large piece of art beside Chloe who was very obviously taken with this particular artwork.

"Yeah, but I'm not even sure if it's for sale."

"I'll make it work," She gave him a dubious look that he brushed away easily with a cocky grin.

In the end, they left the art gallery with the piece of art that Bruce had bought for her. Chloe wanted to pay him back for the painting but of course Bruce knew what she was trying to do when she asked him how much it had cost. And asking the gallery owners the price Bruce had paid for it had been pointless because Bruce told them not to.

She had to admit that it was a sweet gesture on his part, and she could appreciate the gift from Bruce. And if spending money on her wasn't enough, he even had the painting brought back to her place in his car. Chloe was slightly surprised at the ease with which he carried it across the lobby and into the elevator.

Bruce set it down on the floor in her dining room leaning against the wall. Pushing down the sleeves of his shirt, Bruce stood up and Chloe saw that he looked like he was used to hefting heavy things. In the kitchen, Chloe leaned on the counter and pulled the refrigerator door open. The appliance was a stainless steel behemoth that Chloe was unconsciously fond of. She grabbed two bottles from the neatly- arranged rows of bottles of Vitamin Water, Pellegrino, and Veuve Clicquot and bumped the door closed, turning to lean against it instead of the counter.

As Bruce entered the kitchen, she threw him a bottle which he caught. "What's this?" Bruce eyes took in the label. XXX. Açaí- blueberry- pomegranate.

"Fortified sugar water. Nevertheless it's a wiser choice than Coke which I don't like. Diet or not." He hesitated for a moment before unscrewing the cap and drank. Before they knew it, it became a race to see who could down the whole bottle quicker. Bruce won.

"I have to go get ready. My dinner date is in two hours," Chloe walked him to the door.

"A fashion tip," Chloe began, drawing closer to him. "wear black. You look good in black. Just don't wear too much black, and you need color."

"What I want to say is that I love the painting. Thank you so much, Bruce." He had just enough time to see the way her green eyes lit up and realize what she planned to do. Chloe stood on the tip of her toes so she could get her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. He responded appropriately, wrapping one arm around her. Unexpectedly, her warm mouth came to rest on his cheeks, stunning him just enough. Then as quickly as she had kissed him on the cheek, she pulled away.

He reached out for her face before she could turn away and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear that had a diamond earstud. "Glad that you loved it." In a parting gesture, he reached up, fingers brushing her cheekbones in a feather- light touch.

She smiled up at him. "Enjoy your dinner date,"

In the solitude of his car, Bruce brought a hand up to his cheek. As his car sped off in the direction of the manor, he couldn't suppress the grin that broke out across his face.

* * *

He swapped his brown Givenchy jacket for a leather jacket, shrugging it on over his black V- neck. He hung up the keys of the Ferrari along with that of other numerous cars and put on his helmet, covering up his dark hair. Running his hand briefly along the Ducati, he rolled the black bike out, mounted it as the garage doors trundled shut, and started it with a kick.

The motorcycle roared between his legs, and he took the long way to his destination, weaving in and out of downtown's maze of one- ways, then opening the Ducati up on the bridge. He was going well over a hundred when he blew past a cop car parked to one side of the road. Assuming he'd tripped the guy's radar and he wasn't asleep behind his badge — pretty impossible where Gotham's cops were concerned — he didn't come after him. Hard to chase what you couldn't see when he never put his lights on.

He traced a familiar route through an amazingly intricate maze of poorly-lit alleys before he arrived at a building that had clearly seen better days. An associate of his had informed him that the goods he wanted would be delivered by one of their new guys. It wasn't that he didn't trust the man but it was always better to be come prepared. Hidden under his leather jacket was a Sig Sauer tucked in the waistband of his jeans. Almost impatiently, he glanced at his Tissot watch.

Colin took the biggest drag a pair of human lungs could ingest from the cigarette clamped between his teeth and threw it to the ground, crushing the Marlboro under his shoe. The cigarette had a long way more to go before it burned out but he was already late for a scheduled meeting with the man who had recently gained reputation as the biggest money maker in Gotham's crime underworld. Other than that the person he was about to meet was a complete stranger to him. He turned up the collar of his tan trench coat and felt like Agent Clouseau in his well- worn coat as he headed straight into the heart of the Narrows.

His eyes darted this way and that, his ears ever alert. There may not be any Batman sightings recently but it still freaked him to know that the Batman could be anywhere in the darkness around him. Hunching into his coat, he made a right, heading west with hands balled into fists in the pockets as he tried to still his nerves. Being out here in the Narrows at this time of the night was new and he had never felt this vulnerable. He may had a gun with him but he wasn't stupid enough to let himself derive a false sense of security from it. In his line of work, he'd heard stories of the two-hundred-pound-plus vigilante in armor.

Tall, olive- skinned with thick, dark hair, the man that Colin met at the location given to him, cut a commanding presence. Where Colin's hair looked simply windblown, his hair was tousled in a way that gave off a ruggedness Colin knew women liked in men. The hair aside, it wasn't hard to see that women would be drawn to him.

"Did you get what I wanted?"

"Yes," Colin nodded, hurrying along to the abandoned building, unlocking the door as Colin led him further into the building. This was Colin's second time in here but he reckoned this wasn't the other man's first time. The cavernous walls, the stale smell and a couple bare bulbs illuminating the empty space was not afforded a second glance by the man who looked completely out of place in his designer jacket and jeans. Colin's shoulder relaxed marginally as some of the tension he felt on the way here ebbed.

Colin produced a piece of paper scribbled with specific descriptions of human test subjects as the other man looked on. "I got all four as you wanted. But just so you know, the 15 year- old you requested for was the hardest to find."

The man simply smiled thinly at that. Shit, Colin cursed, where did that came from? "I appreciate your efforts." At the corner of the room, four figures that were bound, blindfolded and had duct tape across their mouths leaned motionless against the wall. Knocking them out had been very easy but the difficult part was to properly inject into them whatever it was that had been given to him.

He held out a Ziploc bag to Colin. "The injection vials?"

"Oh," It took Colin a moment to realize what had been asked from him. He quickly retrieved the said items from the pockets of his trench, dropping his bag that held the vials into the opened bag. The syringes, on the other hand, had been disposed as per the orders from this man that had been relayed to him.

His job thus completed, the man placed six folded stacks of money tied with rubber band into Colin's hand. He quickly counted the bills before putting it into his coat pocket.

"It was a pleasure doing business with you," He said to Colin and unexpectedly the man shoved two folded stacks of money into his other coat pocket. "Buy yourself a new coat. I'd recommend Burberry."

* * *

**A/N:**

**Reviews would be really nice.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: Batman belongs to those people at DC Comics, and Christopher Nolan. But my characters belong to only me and no one else.**

* * *

Alfred was pouring out a glass of apple juice when Bruce entered the kitchen, straightening the cuffs on his shirt. "Master Wayne, I've made an appointment at the dentist's at eleven."

"It can't get any earlier?"

"If you must know, Master Wayne, the Wayne family name is not reason enough for the doctor to wake up any earlier than he usually did." Alfred looked offended. "Have I never did my utmost best to fulfill your every desire?"

"Chill, Alfred." Bruce attempted to grin and managed only a cross between a grimace and a forced- looking grin. "It's just that my jaw hurts a lot and I want to get this over with first thing in the morning."

"Forgive me if I'm inclined to point out that you've rejected all oral numbing medications and painkillers, sir." Alfred placed a plate of breakfast fare before him.

Bruce took a seat by the breakfast bar. "Alfred, it hurts me to chew and you know it." He glared at what Alfred had prepared for him. The bacon, poached eggs, fried mushrooms and tomatoes, baked beans, and French toast was more substantial than what he usually ate in the mornings.

"You have to eat as much as you can now, sir." As Bruce was about to protest, Alfred gave him a look that dared him to make this hard for himself and the butler. "Sustaining on brain fat is not an option, neither is skipping breakfast."

Bruce sighed, poking at the french toast with his knife. He knew Alfred was right. The procedure he was about to undergo was a quadruple extraction of his severely impacted wisdom teeth. Not to mention that he will be under a much higher than normal dose of anesthesia due to his high drug tolerance.

"Splendid." Alfred remarked to no one in particular, knowing he had won.

* * *

It didn't escape Bruce's own notice that the necktie he had on was overdoing it. Of course, the fact that the Jil Sander necktie — which was given to him by Erika for his birthday earlier this year — had a pattern of dinosaurs was another deciding factor that made him took it off and tossed it onto the passenger seat of his BMW. Although if he was in a three- piece suit, he wouldn't mind the once earth- ruling reptiles at all as it would be sufficiently concealed.

Recognition passed over the face of the receptionist when he pushed in through the double glass doors into the clinic. The change in her demeanor was subtle but rarely did such things ever escape his notice. The woman with a pixie- cut had that that milk and honey complexion that some redheads have.

She surreptitiously leaned over her mobile phone for a look at her reflection to make sure that her makeup was fine and she had no hair out of place. "Can I help you, Mr. Wayne?" Hearing her voice as she addressed the billionaire, she had to remind herself she was happily married to a man she still had the hots for.

"I believe you can." He lapsed into his flirtatious manner, giving her a sparkling smile. "What's your name?"

A few minutes later, Bruce was in the waiting room. The only other person that waited along with him was a woman in a red multicolored Prabal Gurung dégradé fox fur jacket across the room was perusing a copy of _Harper's Bazaar._They were the only color in the all- white waiting room. Bruce hardly ever gave his surroundings much thought when it didn't matter but he'd make an exception this one time. Everything was white; white flokati rugs, white tile walls, white lacquer tables, white leather couches and white fiberglass Eames loungers. If he ever thought his office at Wayne Towers was a study in extreme minimalism that he couldn't care for, this was even worse. At least he got the designing team to imbue his place with some measure of taste that was more theirs than his but still it was better than nothing. Here, it was totally nothing and a voice in his head that sounded like it was Chloe's piped up. _Boring._

"You'll get to eat as many ice creams as you want if the doctor says you can." The waiting room had more people now and the chatter around him grew with it. That one voice, however, was hard to miss because he recognized it instantly. Bruce closed the _Men' s Health _magazine that he had occupied himself with for the past fifteen minutes after he'd read a few others — GQ, Vanity Fair and National Geographic Traveler.

He saw Chloe at the receptionist's counter with a small boy who was outfitted in GapKids. In one hand she held a bottle of chocolate milk as did the boy and in the other she had his small hand in hers. Other than that, she looked very much the businesswoman in her attire that consisted of a Jonathan Saunders green- collared silk shirt, a Givenchy black velvet skirt, a pair of Givenchy black satin pumps finished with a pointed silver toe and gold anklet and a Chloé royal- blue brushed- leather shoulder bag.

Apparently the boy said something that made her squat down to the boy's height and hooked her pinky finger with his. Probably wanting her to promise she would buy him ice creams. Looking at her, it crossed Bruce's mind that she would be the kind of mother that every woman wanted to be. The kind who juggled family and career with ease and style. The kind who was married to a highly successful businessman.

_A billionaire maybe? _He let his earlier thoughts coalesce in his head, forming a happy picture as he watched her. _Successful businessman felt suspiciously like he meant — oh hell._

If he was contemplating that she was good mother material and was imagining himself as that successful businessman, he was in deep trouble. This was a road that he hadn't went down before, and never allowed himself to. Definitely not when he loved Rachel and she was a casualty of his failure. It wouldn't be right.

"Hey," Chloe came over to where Bruce sat. He might not had overdressed himself for a visit to the dentist's but it wasn't easy to glance past the billionaire in a Gucci slate brown shirt that was unbuttoned at the top and black trousers and not notice who he was.

"Hey," Bruce returned the greeting. "Who's having a toothy issue?" He grinned at the small boy who was taking him in with apprehensive eyes, reaching out to pat his mop of dark hair.

"Chloe has a boyfriend?" Mike piped up from the seat between she and Bruce.

"He needs to get his tooth extracted," Chloe answered Bruce's question.

Chloe smiled at the six- year- old and told him. "I don't have a boyfriend. He's a friend, and also your mom's friend. His name is Bruce," She looked over the boy's head at Bruce, silently asking him if he was okay with the boy calling him that.

Bruce inclined his head. "I didn't even know Camilla had a son," He remarked at the kid's facial features which bore a likeness to the CFO of Wayne Enterprises.

"And a daughter too," Pride shone in Chloe's eyes for a moment. "Camilla made me their godmother and guardian."

"No wonder the babysitting duties," Bruce said, a note of mirth in his voice.

Chloe shook her head as she dug out from her bag an iPad in protective casing and gave it to the boy. As she did that, Bruce got an eyeful of her Lorraine Schwartz diamond lace- sleeve bracelet. "I call it kidsitting — babies aren't my forte."

She realized she hadn't asked Bruce why he was here. "Bruce, what teeth problem are you having? I thought you could get the dentist to go to you instead."

"Alfred said there's no such thing because I needed surgery for the quadruple extraction of my wisdom teeth."

"You're over thirty and still hadn't got any of your wisdom teeth out?" Disbelief swept her as she crossed her arms and looked at him sympathetically. "My oral surgeon told me that the older you get, the more difficult the surgery is. At your age, the roots of your wisdom teeth become fully developed and your jawbone denser so you might end up with numbness in the lower lip."

Chloe opened her mouth and shut it over an escaping bubble of laughter. "Sorry. As much as I like pain, I wouldn't want to know how you're handling the pain. But getting the chance to experience it is cool."

"Maybe you should try understanding what I'm feeling here and make me feel better. Don't jinx things." Bruce wrinkled his face as pityingly as he could. "How old were you when you got yours out?"

"Nineteen. And I only needed surgery for one. I still have the others intact. Three extra teeth and —"

" — all the better to chew with."

"That's exactly it." Chloe lit a smile, bright for a moment before it turned to uncertainty. "Yeah, I shouldn't be laughing. A day after your surgery, rinse your mouth with salt water several times a day for one week. Mix half tablespoon of salt with a glass of water. It helps."

Chloe emerged from the cubicle in the washroom. Thank God she had bumped into Bruce at the dentist's because she had left Mike in Bruce's care when her bladder had got excruciatingly full. She washed her hands, staring at her reflection in the mirror as she did so. Lately, she had been seeing Bruce an awful lot. Since the gallery where he'd bought her a painting, they'd gone gallery- hopping and also had a few coffees together in the morning — the Cuban coffee place he brought her to was a particular favourite and thanks to him, she got to know another good caffeine hangout in this city.

She went back to the waiting room and found Bruce performing magic tricks to Mike who was delightfully entertained and had stopped playing his favourite game on her iPad that needed him to spot hidden objects. Mike ran and tugged at her hand when he saw her approach. "He's amazing!" The boy grinned toothily. "He did magic! And I told him to call me Mike."

Chloe ruffled his head fondly, taking care to not mess it up too much. "He's very nice. Glad you like him."

"I want to show them to the other kids." Mike was telling Bruce excitedly. She watched as Bruce taught him how he did his magic and Mike as he eagerly lapped up the information. Occasionally Bruce would grin at her, clearly enjoying the new experience, and she grinned back.

* * *

Detective Blake carefully steered the Chevy Camaro through the ranks of cruisers and civilian cars with one hand on the steering wheel as he held a pastrami on rye sandwich in his other hand. He was no expert and only knew what this car was when the first few marked units arrived because he watched the _Transformers_ movie, but it was obvious that the department's new ride was a small, vicious animal that eats Mustangs and could swallow Ford's crusty Crown Vic whole. Practically swallowed it when it really began reporting for duty in police trim. Save for a few of the department's younger cars that the Commissioner felt his officers could coax out thousands more of miles, most of it met their end at the junkyard and if any of the police officers were feeling rather melancholic they would have to strain their eyes rather vainly for the few that remained.

The Comissioner didn't even bat an eyelid when he saw what Wayne had immediately decided to do after the police benefit. Blake should have seen it coming. This was the biggest way Wayne could show everybody what he did for the Gotham police. The force got the quality of their coffees upgraded about the same time too. He had asked Gordon if that was also Wayne's doing and was told it was from an heiress who had wanted to do something for the police in the city. The same heiress who was a few days later, according to the press, Wayne's latest girlfriend.

He bit into the bread, beef and brown mustard, taking less crowded streets and alleys to bypass the morning traffic. This job didn't pay well but it gave him the chance to do something for the city and that in his opinion was the most satisfying part of all. He had been one of Gordon's detectives for a year and in a job that unrelentingly demanded many things from him, Blake appreciated still having time for his pre- work breakfasts that was his great escape. He took the cup of black coffee from the cup holder and drank.

Like so many others, Blake had been inspired by Harvey Dent and his sacrifice for the city to join the police force. But it was only until when he' d been promoted to a detective that he'd learned more about the Commissioner and saw the steel in the blue eyes that made Blake want to be like him.

He was between Gold and 26th Street when the radio crackled to life. _"Request the nearest available unit to the south stretch of the boardwalk. A body was discovered."_

A squad car was already there by the time he arrived, lights flashing blue and white. The couple who had discovered the body was having their statements taken by the uniforms, and had a stroller with them. One of the cops that Blake recognized blew his cheeks out like some twenty- year veteran who had seen this a hundred grisly times when he informed him that the body found was that of a kid. Blake wondered if the parents were currently considering about moving to a safer city for the sake of their child. Both husband and wife looked like they were more than economically- able to have another kid or two.

He stepped carefully past the yellow tape. The corpse was not yet in view but he registered the smell. It was overpowering, despite the sea breeze blowing in. Blake approached the body that had been washed against the rocks. The moment he'd gotten out from the car, his skin had begun to feel prickly, the nerves ending screaming in sympathy with the dead.

Blake took in a deep breath and knelt to inspect the body which appeared to belong to a boy around ten years old. Rigor had set in. Dead, glassy eyes gazed up into oblivion. He took a closer look at the face — and froze. The simple gold cross that still hung around his neck was a confirmation that Blake didn't need. He knew the boy from the home where he coached baseball. It looked like the boy had drowned, but he didn't think the boy would go anywhere unsupervised. Blake felt sick to his stomach but closed Gabriel's eyes for him.

One of the cops could be heard talking to someone far behind him. "... storm last night. The current probably carried the body against the boulders where it was found." Blake had deduced as much himself.

_250 Fifty- second Boulevard. _For a moment, Gordon imagined the body he saw as Jimmy's. No longer the crusading district attorney, Harvey who had been blew halfway to hell by a murdering psychopath had menaced Gordon's own precious son with a loaded handgun. Three coin flips and Dent was about to kill his son. If it wasn't for the Batman, his son would be a bloody imprint on the ground. He owed the Batman more than anyone or the man himself knew.

Blake heard footsteps coming towards him and stood up. It was the Commissioner and Detective Montoya. "Looks like a drowning case." A tiny exhale of relief escaped from Gordon and he saw the emotion reflected in the eyes of his other two detectives. Suffocating to death in water was neither pretty nor painless, but it can be surprisingly swift.

Montoya crossed herself. "Does he has any relatives that we can get a hold of?"

"He's from St. Swithin's and has a younger brother there," At their quizzical look, he explained. "I knew both brothers from the time I put in at the orphanage. If I could, I want to go over there after this to deliver the news."

Gordon nodded his assent. "They deserve to hear this from someone they know."

* * *

Across the street was a matte yellow Hennessey Venom GT. It looked like the kind of ride that belonged to Bruce Wayne and Blake couldn't see what business that guy could have here. He climbed the steps of the brownstone building that housed the St. Swithin's Home for Boys where he grew up at. Memories, both good and bad, flooded over him. Blake shook his head to clear his mind.

Being funded by the Wayne Foundation meant that the orphanage provided well for the kids. Inside, he took the elevator to the common floor where he entered and came face- to- face with a pair of Giambattista Valli metallic- heeled patent- leather loafers belonging to a woman who was standing on a ladder replacing a light bulb. She didn't seem to notice him until he cleared his throat. She looked down at him and immediately descended the steps. On her left wrist, she wore a white Chanel watch.

Orphaned and abandoned children, ranging in age from toddlers to teens were nowhere in sight. As was Father Reilly. Seeing as there was no on else around, she was the only one who he could relay the news to. Or at least he had to make his intentions known. "I'm Detective John Blake from the Gotham PD." He flashed his badge.

He had some preconceived notions of the women who were Bruce Wayne's girlfriend, and she was no different. "I'm Chloe Greenwell. Not exactly the person in charge but for the time being, I guess I am." She gave him a firm handshake that made him to almost want to revise his opinions. _So she was also the Greenwell heiress._ Dressed in a pair of white lace shorts, shirt, peach blazer, black tie and a bowler hat, he was expecting some reply that would befit his view of them but she surprised him again when she seem to realize that a police presence meant something bad had happened. "Did something happen?"

"Its regarding Gabriel." His tone was grim.

He saw her face register knowledge of who he meant. "What happened to him?" She asked, without much sign of optimism.

"His body was found on the rocks by the boardwalk two hours ago by a couple." He exhaled, a gesture replete with regret and she thought she sensed something that hinted at the loss also affecting him personally. Chloe had met Gabriel and his brother, Damian the first time she came to visit this orphanage. They were both thin- boned, with the big dark eyes and honey- colored skin of a Diego Rivera painting. They had bonded fairly quickly over conversations carried out in liquid Spanish and Chloe now felt a pang of loss.

"Has the cause of death," Chloe's voice faltered at the word. "been ascertained?"

"It looks like he drowned." Death by drowning had a certain dark romance to it. She could name a few literary heroines who have met their end slipping beneath the waves with billowy layers of petticoats floating around their heads.

Chloe took his uncertainty as confirmation of her own suspicion. "You don't think ...?"

* * *

The Batman had not been out for two nights because swollen cheeks made him look... chubby. And neither did Bruce Wayne during the day, for that matter. Bruce would not say that that he hadn't been gifted with good looks but even a handsome billionaire has his bad days and he wouldn't have Chloe — of all the women he could think of — informing him of that fact if they happen to meet. She was honest, brutally so that he found himself appreciating it. As he did her tendency to animadvert upon anything that would have escaped his notice otherwise.

Alfred paused in the kitchen to acquire the dinner he had prepared, and headed down to the garage. The surgery had kept Bruce in for a few nights and Alfred was secretly glad that it did. With ample amounts of time in Bruce's hands, he had decided to spend them with his cars. Master Wayne had never admitted that his cars were more than objects that a billionaire bought because he could but Alfred knew better. The younger man was as fond of his cars as Batman did his own gadgetry.

"It's time for dinner, Master Wayne." His cars were well- cared for by Alfred who made sure that the cars were in the most perfect condition. That didn't mean however that there was nothing he could improve upon. He would tinker around with the rides to either get them drive the way he wanted it to or equip them with the latest technology. If he was to say so himself, Bruce Wayne cars were exclusively his through and through. Of course he had bought a few one- offs but he wasn't including those.

"Alfred?" Bruce's voice came from under a car. "Come and see what you think of this Jag. It's maroon so I'm sure you can find it." His voice directed the butler past a Koenigsegg, two Ferraris, a Bentley and a Range Rover.

Bruce stood back and surveyed the 1966 Jaguar E- Type that he was currently working on with Alfred at his side. "I would say that it still looks good as it did back in the day. Master Wayne, your taste in cars had always been more contemporary."

Bruce had no clue on whether or not Alfred had any interest in cars but if the Rolls and Bentley he drove was any indication, British cars was his safest bet. "Alfred, this is for you."

"For me, sir?" Alfred could still remember the day when he had stood in the doorway of a gleaming G5 and took in the ragged and filthy appearance of the man that had been declared legally dead. His evenings at a Florentine café by the Arno with a _Fernet- Branca_, hoping that Bruce would never return to the city that took everything from him all faded to the back of his mind when relief had flooded his veins. Along with it, he had thought that there was nothing more emotionally gratifying than the feeling of a father getting his long- lost son back. A similar emotion, albeit without the relief, clogged up his throat now and made his astonishment transparent.

"Yeah, it's for you. I realized that I might have begun to take you for granted when Chloe asked me if you had a family. She made me realize that you've always been there for me and you deserved more than me suddenly leaving Gotham without a word. For seven years you had no idea whether I was dead or alive." Suffice to say, he had been ashamed when he realized it took an outsider to make him see Alfred as more than an employee with an unwavering loyalty. He was the one man that had been with him from the fateful day when he had been orphaned, suppported him when he wanted to be more than a man, and had been the reason that made dealing with the aftermath of the Joker attack bearable. When he thought back to it, he had felt more and more lost since Rachel had died, since his other identity had become so reviled and hunted and it was Alfred's vigilance that anchored him to life.

The sudden gift touched his heart and he was simply overwhelmed. "I'm glad she did, sir, but enough about me. Did she make you realize things that you have denied yourself since Miss Rachel died? I have to say, she is quite lovely."

"Alfred..." Bruce growled this out and shot the butler a dark look that tore at his heart for the grief and guilt in his charge's eyes.

Alfred ignored it and plunged on. "I know you feel for her Master Wayne. It is impossible to not take a liking to her and you two seemed to enjoy each other's company very much."

"What gives?" Bruce looked tired but Alfred saw that it was not because he hadn't slept enough. Alfred's best guess was that it had more to do with the woman who had piqued Bruce's interest of late.

"The fact that the press had managed to again get photographs of you two at the art fair two days ago and that she was currently your latest girlfriend is strong indication of my point." If Alfred remembered correctly, this was the sixth time they had been caught together by the press.

He remembered them squeezing into the decked- out Trabant, which shook, moved and rattled and having an actor serve him sausages to raise awareness for an anti- hydrofracking campaign at the fair. "The press are getting bored and are cooking up a non- existent relationship between me and her. We need to think of something stupid for me to do." Bruce wiped the grease from his hands and sat down on the hood of one of the cars.

"But you like her, sir, do you not?" Alfred enquired, hope infusing his words and he wanted his charge to know that there was still hope for him if he bothered to reach out for it.

"That's not the point, is it Alfred? Look at what happened with Rachel. I don't just like her, I loved her but she didn't feel the same way for me." _It's all a sham, _Bruce thought bitterly. All those summers spend cooling their sunwarmed bodies with a running leap and splash off a dock behind log cabins and licking fingers sticky with warm marshmallows as they tried to scare each other with ghost stories on moonless summer nights. They were as vivid in Bruce's mind now as it had been then. As it did his childhood innocence, his parents' death had took away his first childhood love. _The man I loved, the man who vanished he never came back at all. But maybe he's still out there somewhere. Maybe someday, when Gotham no longer needs Batman, I'll see him again. _The words she had said to him when they stood by the charred remains of Wayne Manor still rung clearly through the many memories he had of her, of their happier times. He had taken their shared childhood memories to mean that she would choose him over Dent. The past had meant nothing to her. What they had in the past weren't the guarantee that he'd took them for and the kisses they'd shared hadn't meant that she would choose him.

Bruce's mind was racing, dancing back and forth between memories of Rachel and images of Chloe. They were essentially different. With Rachel, there was a past, a history between them, a camaraderie forged through years together and an estrangement forced by years apart. More than anyone else, he would have expected her to understand and approve of the Batman but she hadn't and it had been her disapproval that had driven the final wedge between them. With Chloe, there was so little that he knew, yet enough to keep him enthralled.

The question of whether or not Alfred had done the right thing in telling him the truth about the contents of the letter he burned had warred within him a long time before he finally decided that Bruce needed to know what Rachel really felt. For better or worse, Alfred didn't want Bruce to harbor any false hopes, that he and Rachel would have had a future together if the Joker had been telling the truth. "Master Bruce, I had wanted for you to know the truth because you deserved a chance to find real happiness."

"There's no real happiness out there for me to find. And if I did, one day I'll catch myself wishing the person that I loved had never existed so I'd be spared my pain." Their ideologies aside, he agreed with Ra's. And he found himself also wishing that he wouldn't want to live with his failure to protect the woman he loved for a second time.

"Master Bruce, I want you to listen to me." That made the younger man pay attention. "In her letter, Miss Rachel was sorry to let you down. She wanted you to keep your faith in people even if you lose your faith in her. That goes on to say that she would want you to love again and to accept another woman into that space in your heart which you once reserved for her."

Despite knowing better now that he wasn't the man she was in love with, Bruce could still recall feeling the tightening in his chest and the stinging in his eyes that had been there when he stood staring at the burnt warehouse, trying to suppress the urge to scream and start tearing things apart. He remembered the days when he had succumbed to a deep depression and mourned obsessively for what that could have been. Bruce didn't think he was ready to love again and voiced as much to Alfred.

"But sometimes love is all about proper timing, sir." _You can't ask me to wait for that, _Rachel had told him on the night of Harvey Dent's fundraiser. "And sometimes it's better to have loved than not love at all. The one time with Miss Rachel shouldn't serve as a precedent for your future relationships."

"Alfred, have you ever been in love?"

"I wouldn't presume to be knowledgeable in matters of the heart." The young master would be better off not knowing about his own love life. Yet Alfred was one to advise others.

"All those false hopes that the day would come when Gotham would no longer need Gotham? That she was going to marry me instead of Harvey Dent? I should have known better than to make her my one hope for a better life. I was mistaken."

"You said so yourself, Master Bruce. We're all allowed to make mistakes and past experiences make us all the wiser." Alfred gestured to the dinner he placed alongside the various tools placed on the stainless steel work bench. "I'll leave you to it. Here's two tickets to the Royal Shakespeare Company's _King Lear_. For you." The butler smiled.

He made to leave the garage but turned back one last time. "Or you can give them to me, if you like. I know a good time when it's with Shakespeare."

* * *

**A/N:**

**I admit, it's quite disheartening to see people favorite and alert this, yet not leaving reviews. I'd really like to know your thoughts. C'mon guys, dropping a review is now easier than ever. It only takes a minute, and it encourages me to write more and at a faster pace. To those who reviewed, you have my gratitude!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: Batman belongs to those people at DC Comics, and Christopher Nolan. But my characters belong to only me and no one else.**

* * *

The first thought that invaded her mind when she stepped out of the elevator and onto the eighty-fifth floor of Wayne Towers was that she was betraying her dad — and by extension, her ancestors — for all that her family's company was worth, it didn't even come close to what Wayne Enterprises had. For one, the view wasn't as impressive. It was not for nothing that the city's monorail system and utilities were routed through the glass- and- steel skyscraper, making it the unofficial center of the city. The view left no doubt in her mind that everything in Gotham revolved around Wayne Enterprises and this was the nerve center of the living, thriving, ever-growing organism that was the Wayne family empire. Bruce Wayne, one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the world, staring out of the large windows from his leather chair completed the image she had in her head.

The main boardroom and three offices were enclosed by glass walls that made it easy to see the people inside as they worked. Although she had only ever seen Bruce in play mode, she had no illusions that for all the women he surrounded himself with and his antics, he had a lethal combination of charm, ruthlessness, and acumen that served him well in business matters. She tried to get a glimpse of him, feeling a beat of disappointment when she realized that he hadn't yet arrived.

Chloe barely registered the elevator doors as it pinged open, admitting the owner of the company and the CEO. "What are you doing here at the enemy's headquarters?" Bruce asked in her ear, catching a whiff of her perfume that had a strong undertone of something earthy and dark.

"What the — " She cleared her throat, censoring herself as she whirled to face Bruce who was in a double- breasted pinstriped petrol green- and- blue Salvatore Ferragamo suit. It was the presence of a dignified African- American gentleman in his sixties that stopped her from cursing. "Oh, hi Mr. Fox." Bruce didn't miss the appraising look that Fox gave the woman whose Céline silk shirt and tapered pants were baby- pink in color but had managed to look like she was here to discuss business with Wayne Enterprises.

If the man with neatly trimmed hair and mustache that were more salt than pepper was surprised at her knowing who he was, he didn't show it. Lucius Fox merely smiled and something about it that went so well with the courtly air that an old- fashioned bow tie gave him made her grin. She liked his style. "Its nice to meet you, Ms. Greenwell." They shook hands.

Fox excused himself afterwards and left the two of them standing there. "Enemies now, huh?" _That forties style look exceedingly good on him,_ she mused as an image of Bruce topping off his look with a green felted hat and a scarf around his neck popped into her head.

"Your father don't like me that much, does he?" Her eyebrows tried its best to blend into her green hair. The more Chloe knew him, the more she was finding out that many were under vast misapprehensions when it came to Bruce Wayne. For example, he was more perceptive than people thought he was and not as shallow as everyone said he was. The denial was at the tip of her tongue but she decided against it.

"He thinks that sooner or later your antics are going to take a toll on the company your ancestors had founded." Chloe glanced at the marble busts of company's founders, Solomon and Zebidiah Wayne in the boardroom as they passed the room on the way to Bruce's office. "And I guess he thinks you're going to burn down Wayne Towers someday."

"And what do you think?" Belatedly, Bruce realized that it mattered to him what she thought of him.

"Me?" She gave him a long and measured look and then putting every ounce of sincerity into her voice that she could muster, she said. "I think there's more to you than what you're showing the world."

They were in Bruce's office and he invited her to sit at one end of the couch as he took up the other end. "So, what are you doing here?"

"A friend of mine is a board member." Chloe, he saw had wasted no time in making herself comfortable as she leaned back, placed her Dolce and Gabbana shearling and leather tote on her lap and crossed her legs.

"That doesn't exactly answer my question," Bruce pointed out wryly, draping his arm over the back of the couch.

"You can't get this view anywhere else." Chloe looked at him sheepishly as she turned away from the sprawling, wall- to- wall vista of midtown Gotham.

"How's the view?" Chloe could tell that this was the first time anyone had came up here and gave the reason she just gave.

"I think you know very well about the view. So, I'm not answering that." Chloe answered rather distractedly. With the money he had, she would not have taken Bruce for a minimalist, or at least it was difficult to be one. His desk was a very modern piece with its high chrome finish while the rest of his office was made up of leather, chrome and glass. The monochromatic scheme was supposed to prevent the room from becoming busy or competing with numerous collectibles that he would have gathered from his travels but all he had to display was a few decorative vases, a zebra rug across the floorboards and the usual office paraphernalia. It was remarkably almost spartan in appearance. There was a wet bar at the other end of the enormous office and she had a feeling that it came extremely useful when he needed to ply an associate with drinks to make them more receptive to his and his company's demands. That aside, the decor was just about as telling as a billionaire wearing hand- stitched Italian leather shoes.

"Did you just get your interior designer in here and let him charge you for arranging a few vases and then some?" There was a teasing lilt to her voice which also held a whisper of curiosity. "Next time give me a call if you need this sort of help."

He had a good idea of where her curiosity stemmed from. Bruce wrinkled his nose in reply, which she found was strangely endearing and turned his face to gaze around the office as if seeing it for the first time. It wasn't the first time he had seen that his office was conspicuously devoid of personal items. He considered and discarded several responses before settling on a truthful answer. "I like my office with as fewer things as possible and nothing personal."

That wasn't the answer she was looking for but she accepted it without comment. There was a knock on the door and they were accosted by a voice familiar to both. "Chloe, can I have that bottle of face oil you carry around?"

By the open door of his office, the Wayne Enterprises CFO looked like she always did, fashionably businesslike in a sleek cornsilk- colored Stella McCartney long- sleeved wool sheath dress and Alaïa suede sandals with a makeup bag in hand. Bruce saw that her appearance lacked the usual lipstick and mascara she wore.

"Still hadn't got the time to go buy it? You really should ask your boss for a break." Chloe said as she rooted around in her bag for the item.

Camilla closed the door behind her and sat down on a chair she pulled from the desk. "Hear, hear. Bruce, your girlfriend says I deserve a break."

Chloe seemed to take being his girlfriend in stride. "Personally, I prefer 'lover' to 'girlfriend'. More romantic."

"Lover is a little bit too intense," Bruce piped up. "Not a word my image is usually associated with."

"Hear that, Cam? If you don't believe me when I said there's nothing going on, you should take Gotham's resident playboy's word for it."

Camilla eyed Bruce for a moment, assessing him before she spoke again. "You're pushing away one very eligible bachelor."

"You can't push at air. Seriously, you're like a bloody Yenta." She handed the bottle of Rodin Olio Lusso Luxury Face Oil to the older woman. "Keep this. I'll get myself another."

Clearly all that talk had discomfited both of them even though neither was willing to acknowledge it at least to each other. "Bruce, I've got to run. My dad made sure I'm having a busy day ahead."

"I'll walk you to the elevator," Bruce offered.

When it became increasingly obvious that she had been too polite to decline his offer and was trying to put as much distance as possible between the two of them, he hung back and watched the elevator doors as it closed from a distance. His eyes had followed her to the elevator where he took a moment to admire her behind, moving unself- consciously under fine tailoring, that he found most appealing. The way her hips swayed with each step...

Bruce heard as Lucius came up behind him and cleared his throat meaningfully. "I thought you would like to know that Chloe Greenwell has a five percent stake in Wayne Enterprises. She's smart to get a piece of your company, and quite lovely."

Bruce rolled his eyes. "You too, Lucius?" _Like a bloody Yenta._

"We all just want what's best for you, Bruce." It pained Fox to see such a remarkable man, who had already overcome so much tragedy, cut himself off from any hope of happiness. Bruce deserved better than the emotional purgatory to which he had condemned himself.

* * *

Her Charlotte Olympia velvet platform pumps did the job of announcing her presence before she did so vocally when she arrived at her father's office and found the door already open.

"Close the door." Her father crossed the room to his desk, pushing the day's _Gotham Gazette_ to her. "Society column. Section B3."

By now she had a pretty good guess on what was about to unfold as she opened the day's newspaper to the page he specified. He wouldn't have needed to specify what exactly he wanted her to read because the news that would be of his concern was obvious. Chloe took a look at the very recently- taken photograph of her in a sensually sheer John Galliano lilac halter- neck gown with Bruce and Marc at her sides and put the paper away. The photo was taken at a fundraiser where the guests carried giant canisters of water around a catwalk in gowns and tuxedos to highlight the lengths to which people in impoverished countries must go for clean water. She and Marc had took photos of each other as cheerleaders goaded on when they made the trek. When she thought of it now, the photos made her smile.

She didn't have to read it to know what Vicki Vale had written. Chloe allowed herself a moment to wonder what her father was more concerned of. That she was alternating between two men or the dress she wore.

"What have you got to say?" Her father, seated behind his desk was looking intently at her.

"There nothing going on with Wayne, if that's what you want to know." Chloe was intentionally using his family name instead of the first name that she had been so used to calling him by.

"The papers are saying otherwise." He pointed out.

"They're under a mistaken assumption."

"And you're not?" She was momentarily taken aback by the question that she was unable to answer immediately. On the other hand, the pause seemed to make him privy to a knowledge that she wasn't aware of herself.

"I'm not aware that I've mistakenly assumed anything." She replied coolly, not liking the direction where this conversation was heading.

"That kid knows how to charm his way around women and he'll trample over your fragile little heart when he's done with you." Chloe was sure that the age where parents told their kids about the birds and the bees had long passed for her. _Done with what... fucking? _Chloe was tempted to say but it was an incredibly juvenile comeback.

"I'm more than capable to resist his charms." She informed him and got in return a look that was reminiscent of the way her father used to gaze at her mother and she felt a longing pull at her heartstrings. For the better part of her teenage years, she had learned to deal with the absence of having a maternal figure but she still longed for that mother- daughter connection that she would be able to appreciate more now that she is older.

"That you do," Derek said this softly and she knew it wasn't meant for her ears.

To this, Chloe had no response and her father continued on. "He can't sustain a relationship. He'll break you and you're too good for him."

"Dad, you don't get to decide on who's too good for whom. And geez, if anything shouldn't you consider his billionaire status?" Her parents were, after all, BFFs with Bruce's parents before she was born.

"Chloe, I don't know what you see in him." _I see many things in him_, her mind fired back, quick to go to his defense.

"That's because you couldn't see that his company had flourished under his watch. And you think he's no more than a vapid, womanizing wastrel." She slammed her hand on his desk for emphasis, the rings she wore giving more heft to the gesture.

"Under Lucius Fox's watch." Her father corrected calmly and she could see that this was more than he would usually take from her. "Look past Wayne and at Marco whom you keep with you to parade around when you go to those events of yours."

He might not have admitted it out loud but the clear acknowledgement in his voice that he didn't want her to have anything to do with Bruce made her lose it. "Dad, know this one thing if not anything else: you don't have a damned say in who I want to get in a relationship with."

Chloe had the satisfaction of slamming the door with enough force to leave it rattling on its hinges.

* * *

It was when she had been driving down a rural lane for twenty minutes that Chloe realized she was lost. She had left the office in a fit of anger and had sped her way through the streets of Gotham aimlessly as a form of release. A sense of helplessness was building within her and she cursed herself for not having a GPS system installed in her car. _Ah, the iPad,_she thought and took out the device, checked the battery bar and made sure that there was 3G connectivity, then sent up a word of thanks. It would take time to download the navigation app so she continued to navigate the Maserati down the tree- lined road in search for signs that could tell her where she was at.

_The Palisades._ She realized as she drove past a stately Tudor house. This was the first time she ever ventured this far out from the city and fueled by a spark of curiosity for this upscale area of Gotham, she floored the accelerator which turned out to be a bad idea. Through the steering wheel, she felt a shuddering effect and the car felt slightly wobbly. Her car was outfitted with Michelin tires for goodness sake and there was only one reason for it: she was having a flat. Typical.

Armed with an owner's manual, she got out to inspect the puncture. To her inexperienced eyes, the nail embedded into the tire looked pretty deep. She thumbed the guide for help with the punctured tire and came to the desired page. Chloe did as was instructed and arrived at the conclusion that that the tire was too damaged for the emergency repair kit and Maserati's only advice was to contact the nearest Authorized Maserati Dealer. Resisting the urge to kick the tire in frustration, she got back into her car and grabbed her BlackBerry from the bottom of her bag. Only to find it dead. _Damn._

For a few seconds she sat there before deciding to leave her car by the side of the road, telling herself that it would still be here by the time she returned with some help. Now all she needed was a change of footwear. Swapping her heels with a pair of Converse, she took her bag, locked the car and took off walking in the direction of Wayne Manor. The walk turned out to be a leisurely stroll. So far, she had passed five enormous, sprawling estates, each of which could have conceivably been Wayne Manor if the app hadn't pointed out otherwise. _Why was the Palisades part of Gotham City, anyways?_And then she got the answer. _Probably for the tax revenue_.

When she reached the circle drive of an Elizabethan style manor, sunset was coming on fast over the silhouette of the city in the distance. The sky above was striped with bars of aluminium and rosy gold. Glancing up at the marble façade of the manor house, her gaze eventually went to the rest of the building that consists of a high central hall surrounded by four towers. It was the ideal backdrop for a picnic, tucking into egg and cress sandwiches and pork pies as one tried not to imagine themselves existing in the pages of a Jane Austen novel.

Chloe had expected a polished brass knocker instead of a doorbell and remembered that this was a rebuilt of the original. Wayne Manor still looked all of two hundred years old even though it had been standing for two years or so. Not long after she pressed the doorbell, Alfred greeted her at the door and made no attempt to contain his surprise. "Miss Greenwell, what brings you to our door?"

"Hi, Alfred." She smiled. "My car got a flat tire when I was in the neighborhood. So I was wondering if you could lend me some stuff to replace it? If that's not too much trouble? I'll return it back immediately when I'm done and I can pay for a tire."

"No, it's no trouble at all. But I think it wise that you wait for Master Wayne to return." The front door was wider now as he pushed it open fully.

Was she really about to admit it? Whatever. "Thing is I'm afraid that my car might get stolen while its out — " Behind her, Chloe heard the unmistakable sound of a Lamborghini as it pulled up at the front. She turned just as Bruce got out of a Gallardo Nera and made his way up the steps.

Bruce eyed her warily, not knowing what to make of the combination of her office- appropriate attire and the whimsically- printed sneakers. "What are you doing here?"

Alfred interjected smoothly before she could answer for herself. "Master Wayne, Miss Greenwell's car has a punctured tire and she's needs some assistance."

At that she watched as Bruce's face morphed into an all- business expression. "Alfred, I'll see to it." He looked at her. "Need my muscle?"

She shook her head. "Keep that for impressing the ladies, if you will. I need to borrow a jack, a lug wrench, and a tire."

"The Maserati? Front or rear tires?"

"Rea-"

"Wait here, I'll be back." Bruce began to walk away. Chloe clucked her tongue in annoyance as she watched him disappear.

When Bruce reappeared with all the tools she asked for, she couldn't help but see that he had the tire right. Wordlessly, he loaded the tire and all into his car before he started the engine of his car and called for her to get into his car. "You know, I meant to carry it all the way back to my car."

"It's getting dark, and Alfred will have my head if I let that happen. Besides, I'm too much of a gentleman to allow that." They retraced the way where she had came from as she watched the stately trees and majestic houses swoosh past.

Curiosity prodded him. "Paying a social visit to one of the houses out here?"

"Actually it's..." Hesitation was audible in her voice. "Me and my dad had a disagreement." That was putting it mildly.

Bruce felt impelled to point out that she didn't have the strength needed to replace the tire as he leaned against the side of his car with his arms crossed. Given the circumstances that had brought her out here in the first place, he knew that offering to lend a hand might not be perceived as an act of kindness. She had been off on a pretty good start, able to jack the car up to begin the process of changing the tire and then it became obvious that loosening the nuts was harder work.

One thing Chloe realized was that watching those Youtube videos on how to change a flat tire doesn't sufficiently prepare one physically for the real thing. She had been pretty confident that it would be over within a matter of minutes — at least what she was led to believe. Thick strings of hair fell into her eyes, and she tossed them back impatiently as she brought a foot down on the spider- type lug wrench, willing it to budge. Now she knew why women never attempted to replace their tires and her cousin had been right when he blew her off when she told him — after getting her driver's license — that it would be cool to be able to change a flat tire all by her own. She hated admitting that this was the opposite of cool.

Bruce expelled a gusty sigh as he looked obliquely at her unsuccessful attempts. This was getting them nowhere. "Step aside. I take it that flagging down a passing car by looking all pretty and helpless wasn't the way you would have liked to deal with something like this?"

Chloe stepped away. "Girl can't take no for an answer until she tries her hand at it."

He took off his jacket, loosened the necktie around his neck and rolled up his sleeves as he began getting down to work. "I'll get this done in less than ten minutes."

"You don't get to show- off because you're a guy. But the clock's ticking."

True to his word, the tire was changed speedily and though it shouldn't have, it impressed her slightly. Chloe offered him a piece of tissue to wipe at the sweat that had accumulated at his brow. "Bruce, thanks." Gratefully, she smiled.

"Anytime," He liked knowing that he was responsible for her smiles.

Alfred was there to meet them when she pulled up the drive that she had earlier walked on behind Bruce's Lamborghini. The two cars of Italian make contrasted each other sharply. The matte black body panels of the Lambo with the glossy white paintwork of the Maserati. His car was all dark and aggressive with its special shade of black, brake calipers in a special silver, and smoked taillights while hers was all elegance and sportiness.

"No, Miss Greenwell, there's no need to pay for the tires. Master Wayne would be more than ready to overlook that small matter of a tire changing ownership." She knew that the butler was telling the truth. If he could buy hotels on a whim, she doubted that he would care about a tire. Michelin or not.

"Chloe, Alfred's right. It's just a tire. Give your case a rest."

"But how if I start telling everyone that the folks at Wayne Manor are giving away free tires? You can't give it freely anymore, can you?" It would have been a pretty strong point to make if it wasn't for the loud rumbling sound coming from her stomach.

"I will take the money, on one condition, Miss Greenwell."

* * *

The condition was that she spend a night here because according to Alfred's reasoning it would be very late by the time she made it to her place in the city. He had also pointed out that it was already well past dinnertime and she was hungry. This was entirely the butler's own idea so she had been rather unsure whether to accept it or not without Bruce actually agreeing to it but Alfred had put all her worries to rest when he told her that the master of the house wouldn't mind.

Alfred had shown her to her room which was at the west wing, while Bruce's room was at the east. She had hoped for a room down the same hallway as his. Maybe then she'd get a peek of his bedroom and see if it was as empty as his office. Chloe didn't try to find out why she wanted to do that though.

She had never appreciated familiarity in an unfamiliar setting more than she did now as she pawed through the contents of the Louis Vuitton travel bag that she took from the backseat of her car. Currently, Alfred was in the kitchen. He had excused himself earlier for he needed to prepare dinner and had invited her to join him if she so desired. Quickly, Chloe pulled on a sweater and a pair of frayed denim shorts with her hair done up in a tight bun and reappeared in there a while later. She was going to try help him as much as she can in the kitchen if only to make her stay here less burdensome on his shoulders.

Bruce was nowhere in sight. She shouldn't have expected him to be in the vicinity. Just because he didn't have a personal chef didn't mean that he would help Alfred out with the cooking. "Where's Bruce?"

"I wouldn't bother too much with his whereabouts if I were you. He'll be here when hunger calls." Alfred had promptly addressed her own hunger with an energy bar and feeling the coming of another angry growl, she took three large bites, silencing it.

She sat on a stool, finishing off the bar as she glanced around the kitchen. The modernity that the kitchen was decked out in made it easy for one to doubt that this was the same kitchen that had been around for previous generations of the Wayne family. By a long stretch of the imagination, it would have been possible to picture the kitchen in all its medieval glory and bustling with servants in their long dark cotton dresses, prim caps and white aprons.

"Was this how the original looked like?"

"Master Wayne had the original Manor rebuilt, brick for brick." The architects had been paid an obscene amount of money to make sure that every detail was faithful to the original but the exterior had been given a facelift for a grander look, and the Manor now occupied larger grounds than it did previously.

Anyone else would have rebuilt the family estates according to more modern sensibilities, but not Bruce. He had honored his family's history by going for what was the tried and true method of what that had gone before. "It looked like he bought the neighbors too. Why?"

"Master Wayne thinks that with the neighbors gone, he could finally give his ancestors the peace and quiet they deserve." Alfred was a good actor, if nothing else and he delivered that lie smoothly.

The implication of his words dawned. "You mean that they're all buried nearby?" The idea didn't spook her any more than ghosts roaming the halls of Wayne Manor did. She didn't believe in ghosts, so that was probably why. That, and the fact that the Waynes would likely be nicely- dressed ghosts and without innards spilling out of them.

"Indeed." Maybe sometime in the future, Alfred would be able to explain the sounds coming from the piano in the study as a ghost's doing.

"Alfred, I was just wondering how many generations of the Wayne family had lived here? In the old Manor, I mean."

"This roof has sheltered six generations of the Wayne family."

She had stubbornly refused to stick around in the kitchen and do nothing while he cooked. In the end, he gave in and tasked her with seasoning the fillet steaks. It was a very elementary task but she could understand him trying to gauge the extent of her skills in the kitchen. In regards to him keep calling her 'Miss Greenwell', her insistence hadn't yielded such good results.

Alfred surveyed her handiwork and nodded approvingly. "Do you cook your own meals, Miss Greenwell? You are certainly more helpful in the kitchen than Master Wayne had ever been."

"I try fixing my own meals whenever I have the time. Cause if I don't, it's instant ramen with an egg thrown in." Takeout was for the days when cooking was too much effort.

Chloe was getting glimpses of what would be for dinner but no real idea of what Alfred had in mind other than steak. She figured she could ask him. "Alfred, what's for dinner?"

Alfred was pouring the Madeira wine over the steak. "Fillet steak in Madeira sauce with bacon mashed potato, carrots and green beans."

She was definitely nothing like Master Wayne when it came to their attitudes towards food. Chloe had had admitted to being a food person and had more interest in the preparation of what would be Bruce's dinner than the man himself ever did. Bruce had never really cared about what Alfred made him eat and the butler suspected that the only reason his effort of readying meals had never gone to waste was because Bruce was aware of the luxury of simply never having to experience hunger. Must be one of the things he learned during his travels.

Apparently she had been off to a good start in proving to Alfred that she was a reliable help, and so he had her preparing the apricot crème Anglaise that was for dessert. He had managed some amount of supervision as he carried on preparing the steak. So far, she was doing alright but she knew she wouldn't be if Alfred had asked her to make _île flottante_ instead. What she remembered of île flottante, floating island, a cake of soft meringue rising from a pale custard sea was that next to the pinches of sugar she'd steal from the bowl, it was the sweetest thing she'd ever put in her mouth.

Chloe took a look inside the fridge when she put in her side of the dessert to chill for an hour. For a guy's fridge there was a surprising amount of things with nutritional value. From the carton of organic, grass- fed milk to the bag of organic oranges, she'd bet that the vegetables and eggs were organic too. The items that the fridge were stocked with made the big chunk of imported Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese look like it was just about the most lip- smacking, followed by the unsalted raw almond butter and a tub of 0 per cent fat Greek yogurt. Chancing a look in the freezer, she saw that it was packed with instant high-protein products, salmon and meats. _Where was the ice cream?_ _And all the unhealthy stuff?_ Chloe wondered and feeling a stab of guilt for snooping, she hastily closed the door.

She didn't know how anyone could eat so freakishly healthy. And she didn't understand why Bruce Wayne chose to eat like that, almost wanting to ask Alfred how Bruce did it. _Almost_, but it didn't matter as Alfred seemed to read her mind and she realized that what she'd done hadn't gone unnoticed. "Master Wayne adheres to a strict diet."

Bruce had never appeared to be particular about food when they ate together. "What kind of diet?"

"Master Wayne follows his nutritionist's recommendation of a healthy and balanced diet." _Who would have known? _Chloe thought and something of her disbelief must have shown on her face when Alfred continued. "It may not seem like it to the rest of the world but Master Wayne is incredibly dedicated to the company his family founded."

That, she could more easily reconcile with the image of the billionaire playboy than his concerns over refined sugar and carbs.

The only other person who had ever talked to Alfred as if they'd never run out of conversation topics was Rachel. Listening to Alfred and Chloe as they exchanged titles of the good books they'd read over dinner, it occurred to Bruce that since moving back in here the other kitchen where most of his memories involving Rachel and food were made had stopped being in use.

_Rachel._ And for the first time his heart didn't felt as if it was being skewered within his chest at the mention of his best friend and first love. When had his grief subsided? Was meeting Chloe the catalyst?

Her head snapped up at the sound of footsteps coming into the kitchen. Bruce entered, freshly showered. Damp hair still clung to his scalp and he wore a black shirt with a pair of grey chinos. He didn't say anything as he entered, going straight for the fridge. A little too late, she realized she was eyeing his perfectly rounded glutes and withdrew her gaze.

Bruce pulled out a container of almond milk, drinking from it. "Enjoy yourselves. I'm skipping dinner."

Was she the only one who picked up on the sulky note in his voice? Chloe glanced at the butler as he replied, obviously knowing that Bruce was sulking. "Suit yourself, Master Wayne."

"Just so you know, you're missing out on the good food." Bruce slewed his eyes over to Chloe, catching the look of crushing disappointment as it flashed across her eyes before she looked back down to her food.

Bruce was halfway to the study and planning on putting some extra time on the streets when the expression on Chloe's face weighed heavily on his mind. He supposed he could still patrol at a later hour like he usually did. As he made his way from the east wing back to the kitchen, he was transported back to the past. The laughter of children and his parents' voice surged up around him. He was eight years old again, ignorant of the cruelties of the world and afraid of bats. For a moment, he wanted to know the man he could have been and if it would have made Chloe view him any differently than she did now. Then the memories receded, and he was left again with the silence that pervaded the Manor ever since he buried his parents.

By some unspoken accord, neither she nor Alfred made any move to acknowledge Bruce's reappearance. Maybe this was how Alfred dealt with a sulking Bruce when he was younger, and she agreed with Alfred's approach. She had no idea why Alfred didn't redirect his loyalty elsewhere, instead choosing a monastic lifestyle that was tied to a man who was capable to live on his own and maintaining Wayne Manor. But then again, he'd been of service to the Wayne family for a long time. At the very least, it was time that he made Bruce assemble his own plate of dinner.

Bruce plopped down on the stool beside her, smelling faintly of citrus soap.

"Hungry so soon, eh?" She stopped forking food into her mouth and looked up at him.

"I couldn't risk making Alfred angry with me. And even Bruce Wayne doesn't have beautiful guests turning up on his doorstep seeking his company on every other day." Beautiful or not, it was rare for the Manor to receive guests that either Alfred or him could care about.

"I'm sure Alfred's dying to see what would happen if he left you on your own."

"I'm considering Miss Greenwell's idea. I have to say the idea of a holiday is very tempting." Alfred cut in from the other side of the center island. Upon Bruce's return, the closest Alfred had to a holiday was when Bruce took the whole Russian ballet out on his yacht.

"Awww, c'mon, Alfred. You know I need you more than words could express." Alfred was the last thing that reminded him of the boy that he once was. With his parents and Rachel gone, the butler was the closest thing he had to a family and was becoming more of a fatherly figure to him. He had never really contemplated the prospect of losing Alfred because he couldn't imagine not having him around. And even if Bruce Wayne didn't need Alfred, he was the man that kept Batman on the streets night after night.

"I know, sir, I know." Bruce's wheedling tone belied the cold hard truth of the words. Alfred really didn't know who would set the younger man's bones, stitch his cuts, and administer antidotes to counteract deadly poisons if he wasn't there for Bruce. That reliance had Alfred worry for his master because he didn't know if Bruce would ever find someone else to care for him and allow them to, if the day ever came that Alfred could no longer do so. He allowed himself to hope that the very person could be the guest they currently had, and that Bruce was going to do something about it.

"You two have the best butler- master relationship in Gotham hands down." Chloe observed.

"That's because being a butler is not a popular career choice nowadays." Bruce said. "Do anyone else still have butlers around, Alfred?"

"I wouldn't presume to know if other households had butlers, sir." There was something in his tone that suggested more knowledge than he was letting on. Chloe tried to suppress a smirk and failed. She really was starting to like Alfred, and the fact that Alfred was taking her side was making it impossible not to.

Bruce caught her smirk. "Alfred, you've totally charmed her."

The remainder of Bruce's dinner was spent with Chloe sneaking looks at him when she thought he wasn't looking. While he pretended to not notice what she was doing, it left no doubt in his mind that she must have taken a look in the fridge and had been privy to his eating habits that he would have rather kept away from anyone. She was too smart to not find it odd that he ate the way the contents of the fridge suggested.

Alfred had probably somehow explained it without raising any suspicions but she wasn't buying it. Which left it to Bruce to ward off suspicions if he felt the need for it.

Alfred stood up, his gimpy knees emitting a crack that rang loudly in the kitchen. At that sound, Bruce and Chloe turned a concerned expression on him with the former already by his side, helping him stand.

Chloe hovered uncertainly behind Bruce. "Alfred, did you take anything for those knees? Went to any doctor yet about it?"

"I'm fitter and healthier than anyone my age, and I do intend to keep it that way." Alfred dismissed the worry in their voices.

"Alfred, I'll feel better about it if you get an orthopedic to look at it."

"I will have to take half the day off then."

Chloe didn't know what she was expecting from Bruce when Alfred made the request but he nodded. "Take the whole day off, Alfred. I'm not some baby that you need to babysit."

She snorted loudly. "At least babies aren't capable of crashing a car and too much alcohol would knock them out instead of make a man burn his house down because he's too drunk."

Alfred had opted out from having dessert, leaving it up to the two of them to finish it all. Chloe observed that Bruce had respectfully kept himself from commenting that it was too sweet for his tastes, although his expression said it all.

"Do you by any chance know where the dishwasher is?" Chloe's ten bucks was of the opinion that he didn't know where it was.

Bruce didn't have to feign ignorance when it came to the kitchen. The only thing he knew was that Alfred still stored the condensed milk in the topmost shelf.

He held his hands up apologetically. "I try to keep my hands off Alfred's territory. He'd kill me if I make a mess here, so all I've ever done here is eat."

"That figures." Chloe too, found herself not liking the idea of Bruce roaming around her kitchen without her being close by.

Bruce told himself that he wouldn't have bothered to open all the cabinets in search for the dishwasher if it wasn't for Chloe — who was herself also doing the same. He had suggested that they just pile on the dirty dishes in the sink but she was adamant about cleaning up after themselves. Bruce doubted that anyone else — himself included — would care enough to help Alfred do the dishes in exchange for the meal he'd prepared. And looking back now, he'd never really showed much appreciation for Alfred's cooking.

Bruce opened a cabinet below the center island. "Found it."

While they loaded up the dishwasher together, Bruce didn't attempt to figure out the workings of the machine. He left that part to Chloe who had in almost no time at all found the hidden controls and set the machine to work.

Bruce led them to one of the parlors off the entrance hall. There, Alfred had built up a fire and turned down the lights. Immediately, Bruce made a beeline for what was likely the liquor cabinet as Chloe seated herself in a sofa that somehow managed to look like it had been nestled in by generations. Glancing around the sparely furnished room that was no doubt fashioned for entertaining, it was hard to believe the entire manor had been rebuilt. Without doubt, the late Wayne family matriarch had impeccable taste as evidenced by the high- thirties pieces and the unglazed ivory pottery vases by the 1930s florist Constance Spyry, Cocteau plates, and Venini glass.

Bruce uncorked a weighty Baccarat handcrafted decanter. "Time for a nightcap, I think. What would you like?"

She easily decided what she wanted. "A large Cognac, if you have it. Straight."

Chloe rested for a moment with her eyes closed, enjoying the fire, and missed the look that Bruce cast her as he began to prepare the cognac and one scotch on the rocks.

"You seemed to me like the vodka- and- tequila kind of girl." He remarked.

"Well, I don't really have a particular favourite although I might be partial towards wines from the Lombardy region."

Bruce passed Chloe her drink before he cradled his own drink, his fingers slowly stroking the heavy, cut crystal. "I take it that you like sparkling wines then?"

He thought he saw a corner of her lips quirk up approvingly. "I have to say, you know your wines." Chloe seemed to debate for a moment before she spoke up again. "My mom came from a winemaking family."

Bruce had the distinct feeling that the topic of her mother wasn't something that would come up often in conversations despite her having no reserve about divulging details of herself. For that, he appreciated this tidbit of information because he recognized the same reserve in himself. Come to think of it, he never really knew much about the Greenwells. "You must have had a very interesting childhood growing up in a vineyard."

She cupped the base of the glass, warming it in her hand. "Stomping grapes can be only of so much fun before my cousin and I realized that getting our feet sticky weren't that exciting." Being an only child and without extended relations, it had never really occurred to him that, for most others, family was more than just your parents.

He picked up on the way she mentioned a past memory with her cousin. "You seem to speak of your cousin as if you don't see each other as much anymore."

"He's busy with the latest branch of his architecture firm in Shanghai." Her expression hinted at an extremely close bond with a cousin and Bruce thought, that one could be forgiven for thinking that she was talking about a boyfriend. "I'll be sure to introduce you two when he's in town. He would really be interested to know you personally."

"I wouldn't consider there to be much about me to get to know about."

"All he really wants after he gets close to you is to see your car collection. There is, after all, no one who had managed to do so."

"Is that what you're after too?" Chloe took her time in answering. When she finally inhaled the smells in her drink before taking a tasting sip and then two mouthfuls of the fine brandy only did she answer him.

"If it is, I think we both know that there are simpler ways to achieve that." Turning sideways to face him, she leaned forward and swiftly closed the distance between them.

She felt his body go rigid at her approach. "You seem rather tense."

Bruce doubted he could have heard her if they weren't breathing in the same air. Then, Chloe seeming to realize what she had just done, took a draining sip of cognac and withdrew herself from his personal space.

Imitating her gesture, Bruce took a fortifying mouthful of his drink and found that he was drawn dangerously close to her. With Rachel, it had been more of a residual feeling of closeness with a childhood friend that had progressed into something more intense.

A voice in his head told him to blame it on biology. But not the part of him that had dedicated his life to training to be better than his biology. Not if he could do something about it.

* * *

Chloe stood in the middle of the room with her luggage in hand. She had all but spent only a night here — a very fitful one too, if she was so inclined to add — but she could already feel a heaviness in her heart as she took a moment to appreciate the effort that had clearly gone into the room. The Green Room, as she had came to call it last night, was clearly very seldom slept in. Taking a last look at the bed that stood out like a tabernacle in the center, supported on massive pillars of mahogany and hung with curtains of emerald green damask, she closed the door.

As she made her way down the staircase, Alfred who was passing by the foot of the stairs with what looked like a tray of breakfast foods, looked up as if he was expecting her. "Good morning, Miss Greenwell." Upon her reaching the foot of the stairs, Alfred took a look at her bag. "I'll insist that you stay for breakfast before you leave."

She sniffed at the air around the tray. "I'll invite myself to such good- smelling food even if you're eager to get me out of your hair."

Alfred smiled. "If only Master Wayne shares your enthusiasm for food."

She followed Alfred to the dining room and stood blinking in the sudden illumination coming through the French doors that boasted a wonderful panoramic view of the family property. The decorated ceiling had an immense chandelier which hung from the claws of a golden dragon in flight. Alfred must have noticed her staring at it, she realized, when she heard him say, "That is a Parker and Perry creation from the 19th century when the Prince of Wales embarked upon a major restoration project."

"Wow." Her cousin would know exactly what Alfred was referring to, but that didn't make the chandelier any less old.

The dining table was covered in white damask and crowned by a floral centerpiece. From the looks of it, she suspected that Alfred had woken up early to set the table for breakfast which she doubted was something he did always, considering that Bruce mostly either ate alone or with his butler. If she guessed correctly, then... "Alfred?"

She settled herself into the chair that Alfred pulled out for her. "Yes, Miss Greenwell?"

"Is breakfast always a formal affair like this?" The manner in which she had posed the question apparently didn't make what she was implying any less obvious to Alfred.

He poured a cup of amber-colored, steaming tea and passed it to Chloe, and only then did he tell her. "Master Wayne sees no point in using all these rooms when we're the only occupants so it all seems a waste to be not using it. Any opportunity for an audience gives me an excuse to use these rooms which had so much effort put into them. Drink you tea, dear."

Obediently, she took a sip, but then put down the cup and saucer. One look at the table told her that if anything, the elaborate table setting was an indication of what that was yet to come. If she supposed correctly, then Alfred didn't do anything by halves, and would have prepared nothing short of a feast. And that was where she'd come into the picture.

She hadn't expected for Alfred to be more receptive than he did last night when she offered to help, and he didn't. Not about to give him grounds for declining her, she carefully took the tray that Alfred had just placed a pitcher of pulpy orange juice on, adding to the several silver serving platters. Adjusting the load in her hands, she slipped out of the kitchen with a triumphant grin. A while later she returned, wearing an eager expression as she followed Alfred around the kitchen with a dogged determination to be useful.

He sighed, shaking his head in good-natured dismay, "I could get used to this if you spoil me with your assistance."

"Look at it this way — why not get all the help you can while you could?" Chloe reminded him of Bruce. He didn't doubt that her insistence was as much a sign of stubbornness. His years of watching Bruce grow up had enabled him to recognize a stubborn streak when he saw one.

Alfred went to the oven and pulled out a tray of freshly- baked muffins. Chloe, who was peering over his shoulder at the baked goods tried to make out what flavor it was. As far as the color went, it was obviously chocolate.

She hadn't grasped just how much effort Alfred had put into preparing breakfast until it was spread before her. All manner of tempting foods occupied her view, from Eggs Florentine to pancakes. A bowl of fruit oozing the sweet goodness of her favourites was also present. At first glance, there was too much food to take in but when she began spooning the delicious-smelling food onto a delicate china plate, she saw that the portions were sufficient to feed two - no more, no less. Knowing that the Wayne household wasn't into the practice of wasting food, she felt secretly grateful to Bruce whom Alfred had implied to also have a preference for meals without the formality.

Chloe saw Bruce in the gilt- framed mirror that ran the length of the room as he entered, dressed in a distressed- looking, smoked- grey Bottega Veneta suit.

The first thing that Bruce registered when he entered the dining room was _her_ presence, followed by the conflicting delectable aromas of breakfast. For as long as he cared to remember, both were experiences that had became alien to him. Inadvertently, those thoughts lead his mind back to Rachel. _Keep her away from the same fate_, a voice in his head reminded him of what he had resolved to do this morning.

"I'm telling you, you've got fierce competition from the rich Chinese folks."

He glanced at Chloe, in her Mary Katrantzou shirtdress and navy Alexander McQueen heels, who had paused in the conversation she was having on speakerphone long enough to smile at him and held up her cup of tea in greeting. Taking a seat in an armed brocade chair at the head of the table, he poured a cup of tea for himself and returned the gesture.

"Have some faith. It's not like it'll be in the six- zeroes price range." She reverted back to talking without the speakerphone, wedging her smartphone under her chin so she could continue her conversation as unobtrusively as possible.

From the snippets of conversation he was getting an earful of, an educated guess on Bruce's part was that Chloe was having someone help her buy something at an auction. He'd been to a few of those himself and made a few frivolous purchases. He particularly remembered shelling out seventy- five thousand dollars for a set of four Egyptian limestone canopic jars that didn't quite meet Alfred's approval, which he had on display in his study. The only reason he'd bought it was because no one was willing to spend so much on a set of fifteen- inches jars that held body parts and were busy trying to outdo each other for ownership of a 4th century anthropomorphic sarcophagus cover. The idea of having a pair of eyes belonging to a dead man following him around in the manor creeped him out more than he'd admit to anyone else.

Chloe took the easy way out of taking her pick of the selection of jams on the table by tasting spoonfuls of each. And that, Bruce raised his eyebrows with interest, and she lifted a shoulder in a semblance of a shrug. Having tasted the jams, she finally decided on a raspberry- chocolate- almond concoction. He, on the other hand, automatically decided on his childhood favorite; a grapefruit- rosemary jam that was Alfred's original creation.

"It's about to start." Across the line, Chloe could pick up a voice that had a mild Chinese accent speaking in the background.

"Good luck. Show them what we got. If I' ve got to fork out a million bucks, so be it."

Her cousin's voice came on the line again, amusement warming it . "That's what you always say. Remember the time when we each took out a hundred- and- eighty- six thousand to buy the Ferrari for your dad?"

"You're never gonna let me live that down, are you?" She asked, her voice full of irritation.

"Why, of course not." She could picture Cyril' s expression as he said it, with a hint of smugness slithering over his face. But them, being the closest of cousins, Chloe already knew what he would say next. "Yes, ma' am. I'll get the watch for you. And as usual, you owe me dinner."

"Deal."

Bruce looked at Chloe who was positioned on the other other side of the table from him as he took a bite of toast. Chloe didn't seem to realize that, at least not at first but then she looked up questioningly when she finished the dark chocolate cherry muffin, and was reaching for a second one from across the table.

"Was that your cousin with the architecture firm?" Judging by the animated way with which she talked on her phone and the obviously male voice, Bruce decided that it had to be that cousin of hers.

A slight widening of her eyes gave away her surprise at his powers of observation. It was not lost on him that when she was around, he required more conscious effort on his part to keep the public mask in place.

"Yeah, it's him. He's getting back from Hong Kong tomorrow. If he's in Gotham, you two gonna meet soon enough but a word of warning — he might try to persuade you to let him take a spin in your ride."

_That's not likely to happen anytime soon_, Bruce thought, although he had yet set out to do what he had promised himself. Evidently, it was easier said than done. He was spared from having to form an appropriate reply that would simultaneously be injurious to her and keep his billionaire playboy persona from being discovered as a sham when her phone rang.

Chloe answered the call without so much as giving the caller ID a second glance. "Hey Cy. So did we beat them all?"

"We definitely did. For five hundred- and- eighty thousand dollars."

Bruce watched as what he presumed was good news from the auction began to sink in, and the ridiculous rush of joy as it suffused her expression. She broke into a very triumphant grin. "That's the first minute repeating tourbillon for the collection. You're the best." Her latest purchase was a very rare Patek Philippe platinum minute repeating tourbillon wristwatch with mother- of- pearl dial.

Cyril pretended to take offense at her declaration. "I had _always_ been your best go- to guy when it comes to auctions. And yes, I'm definitely the best."

"Just so you know, paying more than half a million isn't pocket change."

He brushed off her non- existent financial concerns. "Nah, you'll survive. You've got two trust funds backing you up, notwithstanding the high yearly returns that you get from your multiple investments."

"Well, good luck for your wine auction."

"You'll get a bottle of it if I get half a dozen of the Richebourg 2002 vintage, and a taste of the Mouton Rothschild 1999 vintage." Her cousin promised.

Just as Chloe was about to return to finishing off the remains of her breakfast, her phone rang again. Looking at the caller ID, she saw that it was from one of the orphanages that she volunteered at regularly — St. Swithin's. Immediately she picked it up.

She heard Father Reilly's voice on the other end of the line. "Chloe, is that you?"

"It's me." Chloe hoped that he wasn't calling to bring her any bad news concerning Damian.

Whatever the call was about, it became increasingly obvious to Bruce that, from the way her forehead bunched up, it couldn't be anything good. By the time, the call was done with, Bruce knew that it had something to do with the disappearance of a boy from an orphanage.

As soon as she ended the call, she began telling Bruce everything, beginning from the circumstances of her encounter with the brothers, to Damian's disappearance last night, and then it all tumbled out of her — words and memories falling over each other. Bruce kept it to himself, but the death of the elder brother disturbed him, and the Batman's mind was already working to tie it to the recent disappearances. Ever the opportunist, Bruce wasn't about to let pass the opening that she had provided him. Chloe felt partly responsible for letting the boy contribute to helping out with his brother's funeral which was to be in a few days time— he had, after all, once buried his parents too.

"I don't think you know a damned thing about losing both parents." Bruce heard the acid in his own tone, saw Chloe flinch, and was meanly, momentarily glad.

"What?" Chloe asked unnecessarily. The hostile tone in his voice indicated enough to her that this wasn't the Bruce she'd came to know. It was as if there was an unspoken accusation lying between them, and although she didn't know what he was thinking, she could sense that it was barbed and poisonous.

Her gaze became wary as she tried to make sense of where this sudden change in attitude came from.

"All this trying to do your part for society doesn't become you." Bruce said, a tinge of disgust coloring his voice.

"Oh yeah?" Chloe felt her temper igniting. "What does your munificence mean anyway? You think the millions you've given for the betterment of others mean much to those who scorn your extravagant lifestyle? Don't you just feel like the most magnanimous lord of the land when you wake up and see your latest kind deed on the front page of the _Gazette_?"

"So what if I don't know exactly what it's like to be poor and disenfranchised? I know what pain is like, I know what loss is like, and I know what it's like to lose everything that matters, everything you care about." His next words were deliberate and cruel, and fell like the executioner's axe. "You don't know a thing about that, because the only thing you do is live off your father's money."

He saw pure fury burn in those green orbs before she cracked a slap across his cheek, the back of the multiple rings she wore leaving an additional metallic sting on his face.

"You don't get to judge me just because you were born in the Regency Room of Wayne Manor, and had by a stroke of bad luck lost both your parents. At least you were with your parents when they died. But not me." She held his gaze even as her eyes filmed over as though tears might follow.

Chloe was almost out of the front door when Alfred materialized from nowhere. If he had heard of what that had transpired back there, he was being discreet about it. "Leaving now, Miss Greenwell?"

"Yeah. By the way, Alfred, the breakfast you've prepared was one of the best I've had. And thanks for having me here for the night. I especially liked the room you've put me in." Even now, she could still smell the Jo Malone toiletries in the bathroom that she'd used.

"You're welcome, Miss Greenwell. If you're ever in need of a place to stay, for any reasons you may have, just know that you're always welcomed here."

"Thanks, but I think I've just worn out his welcome."

"I'll be sure to bring that matter up with him. And you, my dear, don't take his words to heart. He had always been rather careless with his words."

Alfred produced a green Tupperware which contained what looked like muffins. "Master Wayne told me that you love anything with chocolate, so I've made some extras of the muffins."

She thanked him for it, then... "Can I ask you a question, Alfred?"

"I'll try my best to answer it,"

Alfred watched the varying emotions flicker over her face as she searched for the right words. "I've always thought that Bruce was different, but is he really?"

"Master Wayne finds it serves his interests best to allow people to see what they think he is, and not what he _truly _is."

"Then, Alfred, what _is _he, truly?"

The smile that Alfred gave her was equally sad and enigmatic. "That, my dear, I am not even sure Master Wayne could say."

Alfred stood at the door, watching as she started the car and waved at him before she took off. It was only when her car disappeared from view that Alfred allowed the worry to surface and if it wasn't already too late for Bruce to regain his senses and do the right thing by the both of them.

Chloe floored the accelerator, dangerously edging the redline on her tachometer. It wasn't fair to take it out on her car, but at the moment she really didn't care. As she sailed past a traffic light that had turned green at a junction, Chloe barely had time to register a silver Mazda as it came at her from the left. She felt the stinging pain of impact, and it wasn't before long that her vision gave in to the darkness.

* * *

**I'm sorry guys for taking **_**that **_**long to get a chapter up. BUT THIS IS IT. If I manage to squirrel away enough time to write again, the next one should be up on Christmas.**

**I've kind of been waiting to write this part for far too long now, and I'm looking forward to seeing where it will take the rest of the story! So, if you could be so kind as to tell me your thoughts, please do so. Your reviews would reassure me that you're still out there reading =D**

**And yes, I've watched Skyfall. Javier Bardem's AWESOME!**


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: Batman belongs to those people at DC Comics, and Christopher Nolan. But my characters belong to only me and no one else.**

* * *

To any casual observer it would seem as if it was simply a meeting between the owner of the company and the CEO to start the day with. In actuality, they were both filling very different roles behind closed doors.

"I've traced the name of a few prominent Gotham businessmen to these companies." Bruce glanced at a condensed list of the names he'd given to Lucius a week ago and saw that the names had been traced to various foreign companies. "The rest I'll leave it to you."

A brisk knock sounded on the door before the gesture admitted Jessica Stone, Gotham City's highest paid executive assistant. In the aftermath of Earle's fall and subsequent departure, Bruce and Lucius had taken a look at her resume, cover letter, performance reviews, work history, and references. That, had convinced them that she was to stay on should she choose to remain. From that point on, she had gone on to become a critical employee of Wayne Enterprises.

"Mr Wayne. Mr Fox." Jessica greeted both men. As she did so, Bruce let his gaze linger on his executive assistant who also assisted both Lucius and Camilla in the day- to- day operations of the company. He'd known for a fact that her day started with a quick run on the treadmill and her figure certainly showed it. He followed the pair of legs_— _that were only ever in Valentino's silver rock stud heels or Givenchy sandals_—_ until it came to a purposeful stop beside Lucius. "Miss Haynes just called to say that she'd be unable to come in today. She specifically told me to tell you, Mr Wayne, that Miss Chloe Greenwell was involved in an auto accident and that it's currently on the morning news."

It was only then that Bruce realized she hadn't came in with a mug of coffee and a stack of mail as she did every morning. Jessica already had a remote control for the television in her hand but Bruce's reflexes rendered it moot, him wasting no time in reaching for an identical one on his desk. The first thing Bruce saw was a shot of Chloe as it came up on the screen, followed by the photograph of the scene of accident. A mangled heap attested to what that were previously a white Maserati and what looked like a silver Mazda. Looking at her car which was now destroyed, it was eerily symbolic of their relationship which had taken a turn for the worst just this morning.

It was a little more than he bargained for. He hadn't set out to make her cry nor had he expected for his face to bear the slight bruises that were left behind by her rings when she slapped him. Bruce winced at the memory of it. If he hadn't been at the receiving end of it, he wouldn't have known how much more he preferred being slapped twice by Rachel. Chloe would have the strength to seriously harm a man if a martial artist of his caliber taught her how- he'd give her that.

_"…unable to apprehend the suspect, Mr. Boden, who died at the scene. The other driver, Chloe Greenwell was rushed to the nearest hospital to seek immediate medical attention. A spokesperson for the police department had expressed a deep regret for the turn of events_. _As of the moment, the police commissioner is currently unavailable for comment."_

The news reel scrolling across the television reiterated the accident that had occurred during the morning rush hour. _Police car chase leads to crash involving suspected drug distributor and daughter of billionaire Derek Greenwell._

His eyes remain fixed on the screen when his cell went off in his jacket.

"Master Wayne, have you heard?"

"I'm watching it now as we speak." Alfred recognized the briskness with which he said it, one that was reserved for emotional emergencies. The self blame and guilt would come later, Alfred knew. "Alfred, find out which hospital she's admitted to. I need you to visit her on my behalf."

A short video footage in high definition, obviously taken by a motorist, was played on the screen. It began a little before the impact brought the traffic to a screeching halt, and it was clear to all that the collision they just witnessed would at least have one driver dead. Some of the other drivers came out, their cars to one side of the road. Two of Gotham's black and whites came into the picture with the ambulance close behind, its lights and sirens going. Bruce knew that she'd been transported to the hospital by the time the accident made it into the morning news, but he still took what could have been simply them following the police's lead as a good sign. EMTs only do the full cherry when they know there's someone hurt but still alive.

"Am I to assume that you're not paying her a visit at all?" Whoever took the video zoomed in at the car, giving him a glimpse of Chloe as she was being carted away on a stretcher.

"It would be of more good if the paparazzi don't associate her with me anymore. At least for now, I have to keep the press away from her." The silence at the other end of the line bore no trace of disapproval from the butler for his decision to do so. But the condemnatory tone that Alfred had took this morning still stung even if he wasn't about to blame it all on Bruce.

After getting off the line with Alfred, Bruce found himself the recipient of their collective concern and worry. The creases on Lucius' face seems to have multiplied, and Jessica was slowly checking him with her eyes. He winked at her, pushing away the only emotion that he'd seen her display in the years she'd worked for him.

Her stoic professionalism returned. "I'm sorry for what that had happened to her, sir. Now, would you like for Wayne Enterprises to send some flowers to wish her a speedy recovery?" As with the rest of Gotham, Jessica had been kept up- to- date on the relationship between those two over the past month.

Bruce made a mental note to give her another salary increase. "That will be a good idea. You do that, Ms. Stone."

* * *

Derek Greenwell wasn't his daughter's emergency contact, who turned out to be the CFO of Wayne Enterprises. In the course of his company's dealings, he had encountered her a few times. Camilla Haynes was a name that had been at the tip of everyone's tongue for the few months after she joined Wayne Enterprises and was one half of the duo that had made the company a formidable force to be reckoned with. Bruce Wayne, of course, hadn't been of much help in that regard. All he knew to do, by being at the helm of the company was to do his best to present an opposite of the corporate image that had been the one thing that had, in the past, drove the family business to even greater heights.

The news of Chloe's accident came to him through a call by an acquaintance who was there when it happened. Derek was himself on the way to the company when he received the call, and had instructed the driver to make a detour around the heavy traffic. An employee of his for close to ten years, Tommy had made good timing. He arrived in time to glimpse his daughter's deathly white face that was tinged with blue before the medical staff and the stretcher bearing her disappeared behind the "Authorized Staff Only" doors.

He had a blind moment of instinct as the swinging doors whispered shut, and it was Camilla's surprisingly firm hand on his forearm that prevented him from moving into the direction of the doors behind which Chloe was even now being treated. "You have to let them do their work," she told him.

Their calendars were cleared. Nobody had any serious obligations pending, not compared to this, nothing that couldn't be delayed or sicked out of or blatantly welched on. So they waited.

And waited.

And waited.

It was three hours after Chloe had gone into the ER when Derek checked his IWC Pilot Spitfire Perpetual Calendar for the fifth time. The 18 carat red gold, self- winding watch had been a Christmas gift from his daughter. Now it seemed only fitting that he wore it while waiting for her to come out of surgery.

They sat silently side by side, their weary bodies folded uncomfortably into hard, plastic chairs. While Derek kept his face studiously calm and unworried, his mind was in free fall and it was Camilla's husband, Clifford, bursting into the Emergency Room that alleviated the tension. He had gotten Camilla's text a while back, but he had been in the middle of negotiating a settlement for a client which had just concluded.

He didn't seem to notice Derek's presence as he rushed directly to Camilla, enveloping her in an enormous hug. "Any word?" He asked, his voice muffled in her hair.

"Nothing so far." Camilla told him as she untangled herself from Clifford's arms. "I think the doctors are still working on her."

A thin man with graying temples, sharply dressed in a tailored suit who sat next to his wife, drew Clifford's attention. The pair of green eyes and sharply defined features sparked a flash of recognition in him as Clifford identified the man to be Chloe's father. He was a parent too, and at that moment he understood how hard it must be for the man to take in the news of what happened to his daughter. When his son had been hospitalized following an asthma attack, the worry he'd felt then couldn't be a million miles away from what he must be through.

Clifford and Derek eyed each other for a moment, before they acknowledged the other with a brief nod.

"You'd think that in a city like Gotham, it'd be crowded around here," Clifford observed to no one in particular. And no one answered him, because at that moment, a man in a green surgeon's gown and cap emerged from the emergency theater. Camilla and Clifford instinctively joined hands, and Derek lifted his head, feeling his body go rigid with the possibility that his daughter didn't made it through.

The doctor didn't look like he had been out of medical school for very long. In Derek's estimation, he probably had only a couple of years' worth of occupational experience. "I'm Dr. Paine." He smiled. "With her strong will to live, I think the worst might be behind us. I'm amazed she was still alive when she arrived here with no measurable blood pressure."

Camilla clasped her hands beneath her chin as if in a prayer. Derek, on the other hand, kept his very palpable relief from showing. Inside, the fear whooshed out of him, and like a deflating balloon, he emptied out the thoughts that had been allowed to fester during the interminable wait.

"Ordinarily, in cases where a punctured lung was the result of a penetrating injury to the chest wall, the procedure would be remarkably straightforward. But the chest trauma she sustained was potentially life- threatening and would have resulted in the complete collapse of the lung. It was fortunate she arrived as soon as she did because she hadn't responded to the EMT's urgent needle decompression. I'm going to assume that most of you don't know much about what it is supposed to do, and I'll explain it as plainly as possible- in simple terms, it is the insertion of a large bore needle into the chest cavity through the ribs to release the trapped air. We had her lung surgically attached to the chest wall which would prevent the lung from collapsing again in the future, and generally diminish their likelihood." He paused, searching their faces for confirmation that they understood him. "That's the extent of her worst injuries. Now, four fractured ribs and a fractured arm should be no cause for alarm."

"So she'll be alright?" Clifford asked.

"If there's no infection, no sudden bleeding, she should be out of the woods in a day or two. She's heavily sedated, and they're moving her up to ICU. I'm afraid I must warn all of you that she isn't out of danger yet. The next forty- eight hours are going to be the most critical."

Camilla buried her head in Clifford's chest and cried. "Thank you, Doctor." Derek heard himself say, taking the surgeon's words as reassurance that his daughter would be fine.

Over the top of his wife's head, Clifford met the doctor's gaze and thanked him too, looking immeasurably relieved.

The relief and joy was indication enough that he had done his job well. Dr. Paine smiled kindly. "All in a day's work. I'll tell the staff you're all here and they'll come and get all of you when they're ready."

* * *

The Batman's first stop for that night was Gotham Medical. Behind the cowl, a memory passed in the man's eyes. Something that Alfred had told him about his father surfaced.

Thomas Wayne had been a surgical intern here. For a philandering playboy who coasted through medical school, being around the sick had made him more passionate about his chosen profession than the anatomical charts from the didactic courses had. To quote Alfred on the surgeon that Patrick Wayne's son would later become, Bruce's grandfather had only supported him through the 'medical school nonsense' to indulge his son's daydreaming. In Patrick's view, being a Wayne meant a responsibility to the business and to the name.

He wondered what his grandfather had to say about his grandson assuming responsibility of Gotham, and using the family fortune to fund his activities.

The deft fingers of the breeze ruffled his cape, casting writhing shadows on the windows a floor below but there was no danger of his perch being discovered. Logic dictated that he wouldn't be noticed, not at this hour, when so many lights were off, implying slumber behind curtained windows. Still, habit made him check the street below and only then did he settle himself. The Batman crouched, three points on the ledge with his right elbow draped over his knee.

It was such an easy thing to do, to be outside the window and observe what Bruce Wayne cannot. To allow himself the privilege of becoming just that much more a part of her life when he knew that there was no way he could get back to doing so as Bruce Wayne could. The scene before him was a glance into her world, a moment of intimacy that was beyond anything he'd experienced in more years than he cared to recall.

Her billionaire father was the only other occupant of the room, now dozing off in an armchair right next to the bed. If anything, his presence in the room meant only one thing. Chloe had yet to wake up from the pain meds that had been administered, and hopefully sooner than later. He was close enough to see that the injuries on her face were boldly rendered in angry red cuts and colorful bruises. While he was accustomed to his body boasting a visual array of bruises and what- not, courtesy of his vigilante self's nightly encounters, he suspected that it would be impossible for any female to take their facial injuries lightly. Despite appearances, he could tell that the cuts were superficial, feeling the relief as it flooded him.

That aside, the figure in her morphine- induced coma was frail and her complexion had lost its brilliancy. The pastiness clung to her face with unnatural effect, as if dusted with white talc. His gaze went on to her arm, taking stock of the broken limb before it went on to note the possibility of broken ribs and a punctured lung.

A low growl, building up into a sound of pure animalistic fury escaped him. There was no mistaking the wealth of aggression behind it as the anger surged in him, the rage that had been with him so long that it felt like his body's built on it. The whirlwind fury that had made a home in the bones holding Gotham's knighted avenger against gravity wanted to hurt the man who did this to her.

The Batman's mouth compressed into a bloodless line, his eyes dark.

Tonight, the city's criminals would feel the brunt of his anger.

* * *

She gagged reflexively, feeling the breathing tube lodged between her vocal cords for the first time. With her hand, she scrambled to remove source of irritation only to have the motion interrupted by her father's intercepting grip. "It stays in there."

Despite being unable to talk, she cursed nonetheless and succeeded in producing only a choking sound. Derek reached for the call button, and the speaker on the wall squawked to life. "Yes?"

"My daughter's awake. I'd like for the doctor to see her now."

"I'll send in the doctor." The dispassionate voice sounded the farthest thing away from what she'd expect to hear in a hospital setting.

Chloe attempted to push herself up with her right elbow, feeling a jolt of pain up her arm as she did so. Her father came over, taking the pressure off her painful arm as he helped her into an upright position. Now awake, she needed to know what happened while she was out. About to figure out how to talk without the tube getting in her way, she was interrupted by a knock at the door and a nurse appeared.

"Feeling better, dear?" Chloe nodded once, and could finally see the contents of the polystyrene cup the nurse brought in.

"I'll remove the ET tube, and I need you to relax." The nurse hovered around her now, fiddling with the plastic device around her neck that secured the tube. A little later, the tube left her mouth but not without some residual hoarseness in her throat.

"You'd feel a little better with this." The nurse passed her the cup filed with ice chips. With her left hand, Chloe tilted it into her mouth, feeling the soothing effects of the freezing cold on her throat.

The nurse left them then, but not before promising that the doctor would arrive shortly.

"Hey, dad." She managed weakly. "What's the damage list?"

"Don't take your injuries lightly. You have a broken arm, four broken ribs and a punctured lung."

She absorbed that with a slightly amused twist to her mouth. _I came out alive, didn't I? _"What date is it?"

He glanced at his watch, but it was an empty gesture_— _when each passing hour was spent with him on the lookout for signs of her being awake, it was impossible to lose track of time. "It's the sixth."

_Two days._

For someone who had pulled an all-nighter_— _make it two_—_ at a hospital, her father looked oddly alert and well-groomed. His Pink shirt was wrinkle- free and the tiredness gathering around his eyes only became apparent when she studied him more closely. As for anyone else, they would have remarked that he was dressed like something off Fifth Avenue. But even then_— _notwithstanding the fact that he hadn't been getting as much shuteye time as he normally did_— _it would be a gross mistake on their part, in her eyes at least. Being his daughter, she knew that most of his clothes were not available anywhere near Fifth Avenue, and over the years, she'd acquired the skill to visually pin down their origins.

"Did you manage to set up a room for yourself up here or something?" Chloe asked, mildly suppressing her curiosity.

"I had some of the hospital staff produce an unoccupied room just a few doors down." What his daughter didn't know was that, in addition to snagging a few hours of sleep and a quick shower, he also had his assistant over at Greenwell Center courier over meals prepared by his personal chef, the latest newspapers, and two changes of clothes.

_All those donations to the hospital really paid off_, Chloe thought to herself. Derek made annual contributions to the hospital, and knew the former president personally. Her memory of the man was somewhat distant, but she knew that he is a national figure in psychiatry and academic medicine. Just recently, she had been flipping through his third book that was about genetics and psychiatry.

There was a knock at the door, and the doctor entered with his nurse. Even in his white coat, there was no mistaking his good looks. The dirty blond hair and striking blue- gray eyes worked in his favor. She caught sight of a gold wedding ring that must have caused some disappointment among the female folks of the hospital. "So good to see you're awake, Miss Greenwell. I'm Dr. Adrian Paine." He glanced at her father. "Mr Greenwell, I'm going to examine her, and once I'm done you could return."

"You've got a minor concussion that isn't worrying but I'll just run through some questions. Bear with me." He flashed a smile. She went through the basic questions with ease as he simultaneously jotted down the relevant remarks.

"The visible injuries you've sustained don't look pretty but believe me, in time it will heal flawlessly." He gestured to her face. "But our concern now is your punctured lung, and we need to monitor it closely for the next few days. As for your cracked ribs, it will take a couple of months. Less so for the broken arm, that would take a couple of weeks, followed by physiotherapy if necessary."

"That bad, huh?"

"It could have been worse." He assured her. "The bone in your arm had a clean break, and the force to your ribs weren't extreme enough to result in an open fracture." Dr. Paine gestured to the nurse by his side. "Eliza here will get you settled down. I'll leave you in her good hands."

"Thanks doc."

You're welcome. I'll see you again tomorrow morning." He crossed the room to the door, leaving her with his nurse.

* * *

It was late in the evening when Marc finally made his way through intensive care. He had taken the first flight out of Palermo when the call from her father came through, informing him of Chloe's accident. Then, he hadn't pressed the man for more details as it didn't seem like a good idea. Now, he wished he'd done so. At least he could have utilized his extensive contacts in Gotham to track down the one who had hit her.

Marc felt his anger rising at the sight of Chloe as she lay on the hospital bed with a tangle of tubes attached to her being. In place of the Chloe he had known was a weak, vulnerable and fragile woman with extensive injuries. He balled his fists in the only display of anger that he could manage as he silently closed the door behind him. There would be plenty of time to decide on how best to deal with the possibly deceased person who was the reason she was here.

Despite the jetlag, he had managed a vigilance that surprised even himself. And so, he was awake and waiting when Chloe finally emerged from the effects of the morphine. A glance at the IV drip told her that it was still sluicing the drug into her arm, but she held onto consciousness like a tether. "Ooh. They gave me the good stuff." She mumbled, one that was not lost to Marc's hearing before she became aware that someone was grasping her hand.

"I'd have you know that the 'good stuff' has a high potential for addiction." His shoulders had a tired slump to them, which he consciously straightened when she awoke.

"Marc?" Her voice sounded small.

"Hey," He said softly, leaning against the bedrails. "How are you feeling?"

Marc was seized by a clutch of worry when it looked as though she was struggling to speak. She tried once and a searing pain tore through her chest. She swallowed and after taking a sip off the glass of water that he brought to her lips, tried again, and this time her voice was strong. "Funny you'd ask. I feel as shitty as I look."

He studied her, his eyebrows knitting together in concern. "I think you need more morphine. I'll get the doctor to take a look at you."

From the pinched look around her mouth, he gathered that she was still in some pain. She had to be. But she didn't admit it, at least not outright. "The pain isn't too bad. And the doctor came by this morning."

"You sure the pain's not too much too handle?" He questioned gently, catching her chin to tilt it up. There was an intensity to his gaze, compelling nothing but the truth.

She shook her head. "I've cracked a few ribs, punctured a lung and broke my arm. It's just too much to take in. At least for now focusing only on the pain takes my mind off my condition."

"People break their bones all the time. You will get through this." As he said this, she saw him working his jaw as if to hold himself back from saying anything more.

_Food_. She needed food to distract herself from the self- pity that was becoming too much. One that she supposed he noticed too when they both suggested in unison to have the hospital send up dinner to her room.

"I doubt they serve gourmet dinner here."

He shrugged. "It's the company that matters more to me." They caught each other's expression and broke out into a laugh that was cut short by Chloe hugging herself to brace against the pain in her chest.


End file.
